


A Lost Light - The Spark Starts The Flame

by Arvak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles Stilinski, Because Allison is necessary, But Allison is still alive!, Inspired heavily by Linkin Park's One More Light, M/M, Multiple chapters, Pack Fic, Peter Hale Has A Heart, Post Nogitsune, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles' POV, Subtlety At Its Finest, sorry no spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvak/pseuds/Arvak
Summary: A startling tragedy leaves Stiles reeling in an existential crisis - he needs to be more than he's ever been before in order to bring back loved ones lost. His path to fully finding his Spark leads him to difficult emotions, dangerous situations, and treacherous waters (literally).Still, relationships break yet rebuild stronger, his path brings them out of state on a beautiful road trip, a new ally becomes a good friend, some good news amidst the bad brings everyone ever closer, a happy ending to a new chapter of a life is set in stone, and Stiles cements his place in the pack forever.Through it all, one entity stays true to him: Peter Hale, forever roaming the treeline just out of sight, yet somehow still right by his side, always there to catch him when he falls - even when he never knew he was there. Through the trials they face, and even the ones they fail, their love will become as deep-rooted as the new Nemeton is to the ground Stiles will come to control.---Dedicated toOne More Light by Linkin Park <3and inspired heavily by all ofStarset <3 <3 <3---
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 27
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally published the first chapter of this thing! Now, a few things first: This fic is going to start off very dark and sad, but this is hardly even the beginning! You'll encounter so many tasty little twists and happy/joyous things to come. It gets happier, and the ending is just the best, trust me. I can't help but grin like a loon just thinking about it.
> 
> This story will be more than 30,000 words! I don't know exactly how much more, but it looks like that's where this monster is going! This will be a pretty slow burn, but it's necessary for the _emotions_ , guys. "The most reverent works of art are seldom rushed." (I bet Peter Hale would say that)
> 
> Check out _One More Light_ , by Linkin Park if you were ever so inclined.
> 
> ~-*-~ _Enjoy!_ ~-*-~

_"Should've stayed were there signs I ignored  
Can I help you not to hurt anymore?  
We saw brilliance when the world was asleep  
There are things that we can have, but can't keep _

_If they say  
Who cares if one more light goes out  
In a sky of a million stars...  
Who cares when someone's time runs out  
If a moment is all we are...  
Who cares if one more light goes out_

_Well I do"_

**- _One More Light,_ Linkin Park**

Stranded alone on the infinite waves with no hope of rescue; soaking wet on the outside yet bone dry under the skin. Thirsty and desperate for rehydration whilst literally submerged in the largest reservoir of the world's water - yet unable to quench his thirst for fear of only gaining on an agonizing death; each sip of the very thing he needed to survive laced with salt, designed to dehydrate him faster than he can recover. Doomed to die surrounded by the very thing that he couldn't live without...

The lethal irony was not lost on him.

-

The door rattled the walls when Stiles kicked it shut behind him. He entered the house much like a whirlwind in human form, causing damage and confusion at every turn. His school bag, tossed haphazardly onto the dining table, slid right to the edge of the other side and teetered in warning. He smirked at it and twisted to the music blasting in his ears all the way to the kitchen.

His mind was filled with rushed thoughts about the next few days. It was almost the weekend, and that meant a party at Lydia's. Her parents were out of town for the entire week and it was nearly the end of Senior year. Spirits were high and Stiles wasn't going to allow himself to miss ANOTHER Lydia Martin House Party. The last one, he'd heard, was the most epic party in existence! The cops had apparently been called three times, and each time, Lydia had convinced them to join them by either flirting with them, making deals, or intentionally intoxicating them.

At least, that's the scuttlebutt at school. Stiles wouldn't know. He had been stuck in a storage container with Derek Hale's wonderful fucking company while hunters decided what to do with them.

He would not miss this one!

He hummed to the music while he opened and peered into the fridge. He pulled out some leftovers from an indeterminable point in time ago and cracked open the container. A disinterested sniff at the contents told him that, what he suspected was his dad's half-assed spaghetti, was still safe to eat. He tossed the container in the microwave and set a timer for 66 seconds for dramatic effect. Just as he hit "start", he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

He pulled his phone out to see a message from Derek reading a simple, _Where are you_

Stiles sighed and rolled his eyes to himself, texting back quick and messily with only one hand; _Im at my humble abode working on school stuf. enjoy the pack meetig witout me!_

He dropped down in the seat and pulled out his school books and papers. A neat stack of notebooks to his left, a laptop booting up in front of him, and an array of pencils and markers to his right. The usual setup for a typical Harris essay.

He'd rather write an essay than have to deal with today's pack meeting. It was just going to be Derek huffing and growling, insisting the mongrels pay attention to crime rate and weather patterns or whatnot while all that he and the betas wanted to do was goof off and gossip about school, share their thoughts on Lydia's upcoming party, and plan their Senior prank.

Oh man, the Senior prank. It had to be a good one. Stiles was thinking fireworks and confetti and silly string all over the halls. Erica had hinted that she wanted to buy animal blood in bulk for some reason...

Hmm. Maybe he should work on that instead of homework...

Stiles pursed his lips and glanced down at his phone while he watched it soundlessly vibrate across the tabletop. Derek's name popped up. 3 unread messages in quick succession.

Nah. Homework it was. He'd slacked off enough. He'd be damned if he didn't pass his classes with a good grade, if only to passive-aggressively give his teachers the middle finger on the way out. Nope! They weren't holding him back a grade! The pack meeting could wait, and so could planning their Senior prank. Besides, Lydia's party this weekend was a prime time to stratagize. He had priorities; graduating came first, Senior prank came right after that, and Derek's annoying insistancies that he join a useless pack meeting came very last.

And so, he dove into his work, noticing the 4 texts he had unread from Derek, and the 2 texts and single call he'd missed from Peter. He opted to ignore them. The Hales could handle the pack's antics on their own.

About three hours later, he was figuratively neck-deep in an absolutely ridiculous amount of math when he saw the door open from the corner of his eyes. Before he did anything, he glanced over at his phone and looked at the time. He noticed his dad was home nearly an hour early and an automatic smile fit itself on his face when he looked up, excited to welcome him home, sympathetically happy that he was able to be home an hour early instead of two hours late like usual. His first thought was, _Today must've been a good day!_

But then his smile shattered and his heart clenched hard as all of the blood drained from his face. His head spun immediately when he saw the state of his dad. His usually pristine uniform, void of even a single wrinkle, was disheveled, dirty, and soaked with blood.

So much blood.

Stiles stood up so fast the chair fell to the floor, clattering loudly somewhere behind him while he pulled out his earbuds. He half-lunged towards his father, ready to hold him, help him, call an ambulance maybe, but all the Sheriff did was slowly meet Stiles' eyes with the weight of the world on his worn face. Blood was smeared across his jaw and tears soaked his cheeks. Fresh tears took purchase and joined the already donned dampness.

It was obvious his father wasn't okay in the slightest, but still Stiles felt a breath of relief. Under all of the surging fear, he was able to notice one thing: his dad wasn't the one hurt.

Stiles clutched the table and looked back at the blood on his uniform, mind racing past billions of roadblocks to try to find a solution. There was too much blood for the victim to have survived. And it was all still wet and shiny, like it had been recent. Really recent. The larger stain was soaked into the entire left side of his chest, from a few inches below his collar all the way to his waist. The blood hadn't been able to reach past his pants' waistband since the fabric there was thicker, but there was a separate origin of blood on the inside of his left leg, about where his knee was. It smeared across his foreleg, the wrinkles effectively pronounced with the discoloring.

He noticed mud all over him. His hands were dirty and brown, slightly red. His elbows, forearms, shoulders, the seat of his pants, his ankles and shoes - muddy. It had rained recently. He had been on the ground. Rolling in it, it almost looked like. Had he gotten in a fight? Had he killed someone to save himself?

His eyes went back to the stark blood stains once again. The blood on the leg of his pants was stark in some places, smeared in others, like whoever it belonged to hadn't been there long, and was moving. But the one on his chest was large, round, like whoever had been bleeding was resting against him for an extended amount of time while... while they bled out.

Oh god.

Stiles watched the tears running down his dad's face turn red as they mixed with the thicker wetness. And he caught himself frowning. Whatever had happened had absolutely devastated the Sheriff, but his dad had seen death before. He'd caused it, he'd stopped it, he'd been in the middle of it, at the hands of it. But he'd never come out so broken before. This? This must've been bad. This must've shattered his dad's world.

Then, it only took two words to confirm the fears he hadn't even thought about.

His dad shook his head slowly, lips wobbling, choked out around the tight throat of emotion like it was physically painful to do so, and said to Stiles, "I'm sorry."

In an instant, Stiles' world shattered right along with his dad's. After a broken heartbeat, he shakily walked up to his dad and threw his arms around him as tight as he could, heedless of the wetness soaking into his shirt. He listened to his dad, the strongest man he'd ever known, fall apart in his arms. He listened to him cry and babble unintelligibly. He felt him shake and tremble and he frowned at the door in front of him. His mind was muted into numb silence and was yet simultaneously crowded with too many things at once to be able to make out a single thought from the impenetrable fog.

All of this because his dad was _sorry_.

And there was only one reason his dad would be sorry.

_It was someone he knew._


	2. Chapter 2

_"These memories  
They never leave...  
And now the silence screams that you are gone..._

_Castaway_  
My cries are blocked by the horizon"

- ** _Frequency,_ Starset**

The constant waves lulled Stiles into some kind of disturbed unconsciousness. The repetitive motion helped calm the thoughts that tried so hard to race out of control. He wanted to sleep - desperately wanted to hide in the dark unconsciousness that would shroud him from reality, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't.

The sun beat down on him, warming him just enough to contrast against the chill of the wind on his soaked clothes. He had long since turned his back to the sky, curled up on his side to fit on the floating piece of plaster and wood. He had pulled his long sleeves over his fingers and used one arm to cover the side of his face and the back of his neck from the blistering light. He used the other arm to prop his head up because, every once in a while, a wave would prove too much for his floating wooden companion and would splash up over and try to drown him like hands reaching from the water to surge down his airways and strangle him from the inside out.

He pulled his eyes open and stared out at the endless horizon, all water and too-blue sky. Waves rippled into infinity, shiny-capped and sparkling bright. It hurt to watch, but still he did, because there wasn't anything else to see. Not even a bird in the sky. The small waves slowly carried him along a featureless plane of harsh reality and it was all he could do to hope they were carrying him in the right direction. He tried not to think too hard about the very likely possibility the waves were only pushing him out further into the ocean, away from land. Away from any chance of survival.

Only in theory could he predict where land was. He should be able to gauge by the birds - surely they'd be overhead if there was land nearby. But even if that were true, who's to tell which direction land is? The bird could be flying towards land, or away from it. Parallel to it, even. There is no way to tell for certain where, in proportion to the bird's direction, land was located.

This was what his mind concerned itself with. Too-complicated fretting about his livelihood. He'd even tried to come up with statistics to predict how likely he was to be found. He came up with 1 out of 189930 based on possible mileage out to sea, how long he'd been stranded without seeing even a single boat, plus how likely they were to see him at all, what with being such a small object amidst the ambiguity of the waves and whatever distractions they had on their boat.

He figured he'd have to multiply that number by at least fifty if he were to consider his odds of nightfall wherein spotting him was nearly impossible without shining a light directly on him. But he figured it was easier for his sanity to just skip that part of the math.

Regardless of the numbers, he knew he was mostly relying on luck - which he didn't even believe in, so he was double-fucked. Could he survive long enough to come across a boat or even reach land? Could there be someone in the world who lived at this side of the earth, who was to be in this specific part of the ocean and had chosen to hop in their boat today at this time out of any time of any day of any month, and had come in this direction out of any direction? And could that person happen to come within the 3 mile radius of him that the earth's curvature allows for at the same exact moment that he himself is occupying that space? And could that person happen to see him, realize that he's a person and not just drift wood, and choose to drive their boat over and check on him?

Could all of those variables add up perfectly to equate to a stranger rescuing him before he died of starvation or dehydration or something equally terrible and excruciating?

Probably not.

Which is why he's absolutely positive he's going to die out here.

Damn, if someone attractive fucked him as hard and as often as the universe did, maybe he wouldn't be so sexually frustrated all the time.

-

Stiles felt numb. Physically and mentally numb. He stared at the ground with his fingers held limp in his father's hands. The Sheriff was saying something. He knew what he was saying - something about everything being okay. Something about getting through this. He didn't hear it, and he really didn't care to. But he could hear the pain in his voice.

There was still blood on his shirt.

Their blood.

Stiles closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the anxiety and the nausea. His hands fell onto his lap when his dad let go and moved away. He thinks he heard the phone, but it was hard to catch anything over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. It was hard to process anything past the vivid thoughts flying through his head. It hurt to imagine what it must've looked like. What must've happened. What they must've gone through.

It hurt to know that his dad held them both in his lap. It hurt to know that they died in his arms. At least they hadn't died alone, he kept telling himself. At least they were together.

But why hadn't _he_ been there? He should've _been_ there. He owed it to them. He owed them his life - why couldn't he have been there for the ending of theirs? Why did they have to die at all?! They were _good_ people. They were his friends - his _family._

Stiles sat there in what he could only assume was textbook shock for however long it took for there to suddenly be hands on his knees, and Lydia crouching in front of him, makeup on and hair always so perfect. He stared into her tear-lined green eyes and her soft eyebrows, pushed together in concern. She set her hand on his own and it was the first thing he'd felt since he'd found out whose blood stained he and his dad.

Even her gentle touch somehow hurt as well.

As she talked, he stared at her lips, those beautiful things that made men into whimpering children, and made horrible situations somehow okay, and he wished they would save him. He wanted someone to save him from this - he wanted someone to turn back the clock and tell him what was going to happen - what _had_ happened - so that he could stop it.

He still doesn't know how it went down. He doesn't know how they died. His dad hadn't yet told him, and he hadn't yet asked. All he'd been able to surmise out of his dad's blubbering was that they had been shot, murdered, and he had held them while they died. Nothing more than that, no details, nothing. Maybe he'll ask for details, in time, but right now he can't handle it. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. He wants a puppy in his lap, and a few kittens at his feet, and he wants calm music and he wants to stare up at the milky way and ponder anything but death. He wants to revel in the wonder of life and conscious thought, he wants to appreciate every good time he's had in this life, and he wants to be happy.

He doesn't want the pain.

He doesn't want to continue imaging how agonizing their death had been. He doesn't want to hate himself for not being there for him. He doesn't want to wonder if it all could've been avoided if he'd just taken more time for them. He doesn't want to wonder if their last thoughts were "Why do I have to die?". He doesn't want to wonder if they fought it. He doesn't want to imagine the looks on their faces, the noises from the depths of their being while they struggled to stay alive.

He just wants it to stop.

Lydia was getting frustrated and scared. He could hear it in her voice, the building stress and sorrow tightening her airways. She reached up and cupped his face, swiping her thumbs over his cheeks and shaking him a little. He could hear her, then, saying, "Stiles, _please_. Please, I need you to say _something_."

Stiles swallowed and even in just the preparation of speaking, he felt himself begin to break down. He took in a breath, and it came out in a sob. "Kill me," he pleaded, and felt something like sick satisfaction at the devastated look on her beautiful face. He wondered if she felt even a fraction of his pain. He wondered if she felt even a fraction of his loss. "Make it stop."

"Stiles..." She pressed her lips together and shook her head, tears falling over her soft cheeks like water droplets off of a newborn leaf in the fresh birth of spring. "No."

" _Why?_ " Stiles hung his head and she fought to make him look at her again.

"Because. _We need you_."

Stiles sucked in a hard breath through his teeth and, just like everything else, it was agony. " _They needed me!!_ " he screamed, voice raw, catching the attention of everyone in his house. He noticed Derek, Peter, Isaac, his dad, Erica, Boyd, Jackson... The absence of his two friends screamed in their wake.

Stiles dug his fingers into his palms and felt all of his muscles go taut. He wanted to explode. He wanted to direct all of his anger at a single entity, and he wanted to _obliterate it_. " _Scott and Melissa NEEDED me!! And I WASN'T THERE!!!_ "

His next sob was nothing more than an anguished yell. He pushed Lydia away and made for his room, pushing past Isaac and Erica, who both reached out for him. But Derek grabbed his arms and stopped him. Stiles took the opportunity and fought with all of his might, directing all of his rage and pain at the Alpha who had let this happen.

" _You were supposed to keep them safe!_ " he screamed at Derek. He punched him, kicked him, elbowed and pushed him when Derek tried to restrain his arms. Derek began to growl at him, shouting at him to stop, but Stiles kept lashing out, and he knew he was hurting him. Derek wouldn't hit him, so he knew he was free to punch him in the face, elbow him in the gut, dig his fingers into his arms.

But then someone was pulling him away. He tried to lash out at them as well. But he couldn't. The arms that wrapped around him and pulled him tight against a chest were too strong.

All of Stiles' misplaced anger melted away as he watched thick black veins span all the way up those arms, all the way up the neck that was clothed in a soft v-neck t-shirt.

"I've got you, Stiles," Peter's voice whispered into his ear. "I'll make it stop."

Stiles went numb yet again, but it was a good numb. His muscles relaxed, the fight in his blood gave way to bone-deep exhaustion, and he listened to Peter groan in pain from where his cheek pressed against his shoulder.

After a moment, the pull of his pain got stronger and his mind slipped into uncomfortable darkness, and there he stayed.

His dreams were dark and tortured, filled with sudden flashes of red, the sound of wails and screams, the blood and pain. He kept seeing his dad, blood-soaked and broken. He could see Scott's puppy-dog eyes, wide, innocent, pleading. He could see Melissa's, tight and scared, looking to Scott - all she had left.

When he woke up with tears in his eyes, covered and sweat and shaking, he stumbled out of his room and found his dad sat in his chair with his face in his hands, shoulders jerking like he was already crying. Still crying. He climbed into his lap like he'd last done when he was only ten years old, and he hugged him. He cried with him, wrapped in the warm embrace of his father's shaking arms.

Melissa's last thought was probably about Scott. Melissa probably thought knowing that Scott was dying, that she was losing him and he was losing her, was more painful than actually dying. He couldn't imagine the pain she had been going through. Scott was only Stiles' friend. But he was her _son_. Her flesh and blood. The only family she had that was worth loving.

And he hugged his dad and couldn't help but imagine if their roles had been reversed. If he and his dad had been the ones that lost each other. He couldn't handle it. He couldn't fathom it. He didn't want to.

Growing up with a Sheriff as a father and a mother who had died had taught him that _everyone_ is vulnerable. He had experienced loss. And yet he had to live every day knowing that his dad was putting himself in danger, facing people with guns hopped up on drugs. He knew that every time his dad came home from work safe and sound was something to treasure. It's why he's always pushing so hard for him to eat healthier. Damned he'd be if his dad died due to heart failure before he was even 60 after a lifetime of _real_ danger.

But he's never been hit so hard with something so close to home, so undeniably obvious in its warning to hang on to life as hard as he can because any moment it can be ripped away from him.

Life was something no one can keep. But those who hold on tightest can at least stave off death a little longer than the rest.

-

Stiles glared ruefully up at the crawling clouds and felt his blood churn angrily. Those who hold on the tightest can stave off death longer than the rest? _Please_. What the hell was he thinking?


	3. Chapter 3

_"Can you tell me what is real  
'Cause I've lost my way again  
Can you tell me how to feel  
'Cause I don't feel anything_

_Now that I'm down here again  
I'm down with the fallen again"_

**_-Down With The Fallen,_ Starset**

Stiles' floating companion of plaster and wood rocked him along the waves while he stared at the water right beside his face. He was layed out diagonally on his companion with his cheek right on the edge, staring into the ocean. He felt the cool chill each time the waves splashed up over his chin and cheek. He moved his dry tongue behind his teeth and felt it stick to the roof of his mouth.

With a grimace, and a hint of preemptive regret, he reached a hand out and dipped it into the water, pulling it out with a palm-full of shimmering clear hell. He stared at the disturbed reflection in his palm, this little puddle of water, the most horridly ironic thing on this earth.

Because as soon as he messily slurped it past his lips, he felt the fresh relief of _moisture_ in his bone-dry mouth. The salty taste was easy to ignore since his thirst was so strong, so he swallowed... Then, he gagged, and the little bit of water he'd been able to get down came right back up. His entire body heaved with the force of his upheaval, and wet spit dangled from his lips until only the burn of the salt and some bile remained deep past his tongue.

He whimpered and reached his hand back in the water to splash some over his face to remove the disgusting, humiliating spit. He could feel his pores screaming in protest as every drop of moisture was continually stolen from his skin with each contact of the deadly ocean water.

He spent the next five minutes intermittently spitting, until, ever slowly, the taste of salt wasn't so fierce. Then flopped down on his back and blew his breath out from between his lips with an audible sound, not that anyone was around to hear it. He ran his hand through his tangled mess of hair ( _god_ , it's probably going to take _months_ to get it back to health). He shuddered when he could still vividly feel his kidnappers grabbing him by his hair, yanking his his head back while they sneered threats into his ears.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and rode out the waves, trying hard not to worry about the pack. Oh god, there was so much to worry about...

No. Right now, with no other option, he couldn't afford to stress about things that he couldn't have any control over even if he wanted. Right now, he has to focus only on himself.

Man, that was _way_ easier said than done.

-

The colors in his vision were as bland as the pills slowly coursing through his system. As if nothing - not even the luxury of color - was allowed to him. As if the world of welcoming beauty around him was in fact never welcoming at all. People travel the world to get a glimpse of the colors of fall and spring. Stiles understands now, though; without the color that distinguishes light from dark, everything that exists was, in truth, only matter. For some reason, the lack of color left even the most beautiful sunset nothing more than an entity without merit or sentimentality.

Why?

He couldn't understand _why._

The pills, needless to say, were wreaking havoc on his mind. He had gotten a prescription for them long ago, knowing that, with this new world of supernatural beings and stress, he'd need them; he couldn't be having an existential breakdown every other day when he relied on strong nerves to keep him going. He'd need to be steady in the event he had to do something that would otherwise break him.

They were hardcore anti-anxiety drugs, but he so very rarely used them. He's probably taken only five in the entire time he's had them hiding in his bedside table. Sure, they got rid of the anxiety, but they also got rid of everything else. They turned him into a hollow shell of nothing. All of his emotion vanished and he was left feeling just as sociopathic and disturbed as the people he worked to stop. He found that he could rationalize anything - even cold-blooded murder - while on these pills.

He never would've willingly chosen to take one of them himself, but his dad had come into his room almost half an hour ago with them, set one in his hand, watched him as he took it, then walked out with the rest of the bottle.

It had just recently set in and it was already hard to remember what it was like to feel _emotion._ In this empty state of apathy, he still wished he hadn't taken them. He'd rather hurt than feel so inhumanly void of emotional thought.

He rolled onto his back and slowly swept a hand over his wet face. He stared up at his ceiling and thought nothing. His eyes raked over the light, and even it seemed dull. They raked over his dresser, his walls, all of his personal belongings. Nothing seemed significant anymore. Why did he have all of these _things_? Why did he care to keep his books in good shape? Why did he bother with staying educated? Why did he do anything? What was the point of any of it?

What was the point of living if all it brought was pain and sorrow?

Beyond the silently loud half-thoughts ringing through his head, a small voice said, _it's only the pills talking. Just breathe through it. You'll see it was all worth it._

He blinked and the silent half-thoughts vanished. His eyes continued moving, lazily taking in the boring uselessness around him, and his eyes landed on the grey jacket that hung haphazardly over his desk chair. He stared at it and felt something stir under the layers and layers of heavy synthetic apathy weighing him down. He registered that it was Scott's jacket.

Memories played out in his head, bland and colorless just like everything else, and he could see himself laughing with his best friend, elbowing him while he wore that jacket. He could see himself running with Scott, grabbing onto the grey fabric to pull him up over the bank in the woods, something in the distance chasing them. He could see Scott, just the other day, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the back of the very chair it rested on while he complained about a school assignment.

He pulled in a sharp breath through his stuffy nose and, to an onlooker, it would've sounded like a sniffle.

He wasn't sure he could even muster the emotion to do that.

Still, he felt drawn to that jacket. And he was helpless to follow. He threw his feet out of his bed and shuffled heavily over to the offensive article of clothing on his chair. He cocked his head with a bland expression and reached out to touch it.

Before his fingers made contact, though, he stopped. He blinked slowly and then his teeth ground together. Finally, that stir of emotion hidden beneath the pills' medicinal effects reared its ugly head.

He felt a painful noise crawl from the depths of his soul and escape through his throat just before he grabbed his chair with both hands and used the fuel of adrenaline to throw it hard enough across the room to crash into his bookshelf. One of the shelves fell off of its supports and books and papers and trinkets clattered to the floor. Next, he stomped over to his case-board and tore down the awful mess that plagued his world. He threw everything that had been on his desk across the room and felt the closest thing to happiness he's felt since the news when he saw his things break and dent the wall.

Once everything else was broken, he grabbed Scott's jacket from the floor where it had been thrown from the chair. For a moment, he stared at it, imagining it dying to the roaring flames set by his own hand. But then a moment of clarity helped him see what the pills were doing to him, and he was chilled to the bone with fear. He hated being so blatantly controlled - a sort of lingering fear left over from being possessed by the Nogitsune. He didn't like it. It was _wrong_.

He dropped the jacket and ran to the bathroom.

He hung over the toilet and stuck his fingers down his throat. His stomach emptied, and he hoped he hadn't been too late. He hoped he had gotten rid of most of the medicine that had yet to reach his system. He didn't want it anymore. He'd rather hurt from his own emotions than be a slave to something outside of himself.

"Stiles?"

He didn't answer to Erica's voice. He only shook and gagged over the toilet, watching thick spit dangle from his lips, dripping into the warped reflection of himself in the water. He felt her warm hand settle on his back and soothingly rub and he hated it. It burned his chilled skin.

As soon as his stomach stopped heaving, a bout of severe dizziness took over and he slipped, just barely managing to catch himself on the edge of the toilet. He groaned quietly and dropped his sweaty cheek on the cool metal, heedless of the germs. "Sheriff!" Erica called out worriedly from behind him. "Come here!"

Stiles hated that she was fine. Stiles hated that she could walk, could offer comfort to him. It only meant she was stronger... or perhaps didn't like Scott.

 _Stop,_ the still-functioning rational part of him said, _you're bitter and you're angry. Do not lash out at your only friends just because they aren't broken from this._

 _But why,_ he thought back, _Why am I the only one suffering?_

"What?" he heard his dad ask from the doorway, slightly out of breath like he'd jumped up and ran all the way up the stairs. Still, he layed limp over the toilet.

"I don't know. I just came in and he was vomiting and then he fell..." Erica's hands went to his elbows, steadying him as best she could while he shook. "I don't..."

"Stiles," his dad said softly, sighing sadly.

"I'm gonna get Derek," Erica said decisively, tone still trapped in sympathetic sorrow, then left. His dad pulled Stiles to his feet and turned him around to sit on the toilet, wiping at his face with a wad of toilet paper he'd dampened. Stiles glanced at his dad's face and got a glimpse of bone-deep exhaustion and stress in the lines in his skin. When he looked away, his face tightened with sorrow again.

"Get Deaton, too," his dad hollered after her.

"I am!"

After he'd wiped at his face, his dad brought him back to his room. Stiles fell heavily on his bed, closed his eyes and felt himself ride the waves of medicinal alterations and his father waited with him, sat on the bed beside his arm. He was awake to hear the door downstairs open and close - awake to feel his dad get up to join them in the living room, and was awake to listen to him talk to Derek and Deaton.

Their voices became distant and faded as his mind slipped through to an absent reality. He saw fantastical pictures behind his eyelids of being stranded on a dark hill, caught in the violent pull of a landslide, clutching onto rocks and roots as he fell towards a void. Above him, at the top of the hill, his friends stood, watching. There was nothing they could do. Scott and Melissa had fallen into the void, and Stiles was soon to join them.

Nothing could stop that.

"Stiles," his dad's voice rose him from sleep. It hadn't been long, he thought. But he felt more like himself, now. He could begin to feel himself crawl out of the effects of the medicine. He was relieved, even though the first thing he wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never emerge.

He looked up at the Sheriff, his tired face, the face of the only family he has left, and he felt fear and pain and loss choke him. Already.

"Hey, son." His dad sat down on the edge of the bed and stared down at his hands, wrinkled and slightly damp, either from water or tears. He sighed, and Stiles watched his shoulders heave with the motion. "We need to talk about this."

Stiles' teeth clenched together and he looked away as tears stung his eyes. Even inside he felt wounded. Why did they have to talk about it? Stiles didn't want to. He wasn't ready. It wasn't time. "No," he pleaded.

"Yes." His dad looked over at him and Stiles stubbornly avoided eye contact. "Scott and Melissa are-... are dead." Stiles flinched, like he'd taken a hit. It truly did feel like he had. It felt like he'd taken a punch right to the heart. It felt like there was a fire-hot hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. "They're dead, Stiles. And we have to move on from that."

"Dad-..." Stiles choked out a startled sob and shook his head frantically. "No, no..." His heart was already racing, adrenaline surging. He wanted to escape from this reality. He wanted to escape from the truth. His thoughts raced while his dad sat silent, and the adrenaline pushed him towards frantic anger. "They can't be gone!" He insisted, wanting to yell but with a throat too tight to do much more than wheeze. "They _can't!_ "

He looked over and watched his dad hang his head. "Dad! They can't-... Scott's a _werewolf!_ " His wide eyes stayed steady on his father's own, down-casted in shame. "He's a fucking _werewolf,_ Dad! He's not even human!!" He took a breath. His mind was screaming at him and he could hardly make it out. "And-and-- No one in this town ever stays dead!" Anger gave way to confusion and rage. "Why do _Peter_ and _Kate_ and _Gerard_ get second chances, but _Scott and Melissa don't?! How is that fair?!_ "

"It's not," his dad said back quietly. A tear fell over his wrinkled cheek and Stiles watched his throat move with a tense swallow. "But we don't get to decide what's fair and what's not-"

"YES WE DO!" Stiles pushed himself up onto his shaky arms and dug his fingers into his blankets. His blood felt like it was boiling. " _It's your JOB to decide what's right and wrong!_ You do it _every day!_ "

"Stiles," his dad pleaded.

"And-and-..." Stiles choked out a louder sob. "There's _something-... Something_ can bring them back! It's _Scott and Melissa!_ We deal with _magic,_ and _monsters,_ and-and _spirits_ and _nightmares!_ Something can bring them back! We can find something--" He nearly choked on his wet inhale in his haste to shout, "We can't just _give up!_ "

" _Then don't!_ " His dad turned to look at him with wide eyes of intent to react. His sudden volume had startled Stiles and he looked up at him when he got to his feet. " _Don't_ give up, Stiles!" His dad grabbed his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. "You bring them back!"

Stiles blinked, brows furrowing and tears flowing. His cheeks felt hot. "Me?"

" _You bring them back, Stiles_ ," he said again, his own tears spilling over from his blue eyes. "You have it in you. You have... you have that spark!"

"My- My _spark?!_ " His dad has never voluntarily brought up the subject of Stiles' spark. Stiles always figured it was because it made him uncomfortable, because he had absolutely no idea what it actually meant. He's pretty sure this proves it. "I can't even light a _candle_ and you expect me to bring someone-!"

His dad shook his head. "No, Stiles. No." He swallowed, jaw ticking. His blue eyes tried to soothe his fear. His voice fell soft. "Stiles... If you try, you can bring them back."

Is _trying_ really all his dad things it will take? Stiles isn't magic. He isn't a miracle. He isn't even special. What a load of horse shit to unload on your kid. _Stiles_ is the one who's supposed to bring them back? How is he supposed to cope with that responsibility?

" _How?!_ "

"I don't-... I don't know. I just-... You have to _try_."

"Dad-" Stiles couldn't believe this! It was way too much pressure. Way too much expectation!

But he still wanted to believe it. Of course he wanted to believe it... He wanted to believe his dad could see the future and still say, "everything will work out". Maybe this is why people turn to religion after a world-shattering experience. It could be so nice to believe that there's some predetermined path that will take him where he needs to be in the end. Or at least someone - something - bigger than himself that could manipulate his life for the better.

Still, Stiles was tortured by a realistic mind. Science and fact, evidence and truth. That was what he operated on. It's what has gotten him through wrapping his mind around werewolves and spirits and creatures of the night which, until Scott was bitten, was only fiction to him. He did tests. He turned to science, and science gave him evidence, which gave him proof that these things existed, and so he found it more than easy to accept his new reality.

It would be nice to believe in something more, though.

" _Stiles_." Stiles snapped out of his head and looked back up into his dad's eyes when he grabbed his other shoulder and squared them up with him, both hands tight and pleading. And then his next words took his mind for a real spin; "I _believe_ in you. _I believe_ you will _bring them back_."

What is he supposed to say to that? Is he supposed to say, "hey dad, you're completely fucking delusional and I'm too weak to try"? Does he say, "I couldn't even summon mountain ash without breaking a serious sweat - and that's supposed to come natural to a spark. I'm a disgrace to the title. I'm a disgrace to you. I can't be the hero you want me to be."

Isn't it the kid who's supposed to idolize the parent and not the other way around? How is he supposed to bring them back when it's all he can do to keep himself together? How is he supposed to mend two long-lost lives when his own is already in shambles?

But his dad _"believes"_ in him. His dad hasn't _"believed"_ in anything since Mom died. Nothing.

"You bring them back, Stiles." His dad said again. And, despite even himself, each time he said it, Stiles could feel himself lean into the lie. He wished he could. He really did. He wished he had his father's faith in himself. "I believe you'll bring them back." What is he supposed to do? He's just a kid. He's just a human with a spark he can't even touch. He's _nothing._ "No, I see that look in your eyes. We're _Stilinski_ 's, you hear? And Stilinski's don't give up... _Don't_ you give up!" He won't. He couldn't. It's not in him to give up. He'll walk to the end of the earth to get something he wants... But why does it have to be him? Why does it have to be his responsibility?

His dad set both of his hands on either side of Stiles' face. His brows pushed together, eyes wet and raw. "If anyone can do it... it's you, Stiles. So you get to your feet and you start working on a solution. You search, and you _search_ until you find your answers. And when you feel like you've hit the bottom, you _keep digging_. Do you understand?"

"I-... I understand," he said, quietly, chilled to the bone in fear and anticipation, yet warmed inside by the dim light of simmering hope.

"Understand _what?_ "

He knew he was good at finding answers. He could try. He could damn well try for his best friend. "I won't give up."

"Promise me."

Stiles and his dad shared a meaningful moment of silence. His heart began to beat strong, determination strengthening his core being. "I'll bring them back." And even though deep down that chill still stayed resolute in its belief that everything will come crashing down, in that single moment in time he'd never believed anything more beautiful in his life.

He wasn't there for them when it mattered, but he could at least race to catch up with them before he lost sight of them forever.

"Say it again."

Stiles lifted his chin and blinked at the wall as warm color returned to his vision and his cheeks. "I'll bring them back to life."

He thinks a part of him believed it.

He just hoped it was the part of him that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Fun Fact - This is actually my second time writing this story! I had written this almost half a year ago, but right as I got to 35,000 words at the middle of the big climax of the story, my computer died and the program I was working on didn't have auto-save features or data-recall or anything, so I lost the entire thing. Now I can't ever open the file again. I put the lonely little file in its own folder, renamed the file "Corrupt", 318 kilobytes big, and I kinda want to cry whenever I see it. (The file with this version of the story contained within is named "Remake Of Corrupt". Not creative, I know, but whatever.) 
> 
> Luckily I remembered some of the main details I had going so I was able to start again. Still, starting from scratch is hard. :( But I keep watching this file slowly grow to the size of my original one and it's nice to see.
> 
> So yeah. Anyway... I hope you enjoyed this gut-wrenching chapter full of Stilinski feels and stuff! (Is that what it's called? Feels? Never understood that). Leave a comment <3 I love hearing what you guys think!


	4. Chapter 4

_"My insides all turned to ash, so slow  
And blew away as I collapsed, so cold  
A black wind took them away from sight  
And held the darkness over day that night"_

**- _Valentine's Day,_ Linkin Park**

He thought of his dad saying those words to him: _"I believe you will bring them back."_ He could still hear the exact timbre of his voice, all the emotion and inflection that had saturated his tone. All tangled and woven into those words like some kind of chain and rope construction used to wrap around his hear and lungs and _squeeze_. Anxiety. That's what that had been. Those words sat beneath his ribs and crushed his strength, a lingering threat of failure. Failure to his friends, failure to his dad, failure to Scott and Melissa. It had tortured him.

It was horrifying, Stiles thought, as he looked back. The responsibility that he had put upon himself and what it had done to him... He had been ripped apart from the inside, and forced to put himself back together on his own only to continue on the very path that left him so raw and broken. Of course he was going to break down. Of course nothing would be steady.

The ground beneath him was imploding, only to evanesce into an inescapable void and he was falling into it, weighed down by dark matter. He was falling into a dark star, and there was no one to save him.

At least, that's certainly what it felt like...

Feels like...

He looked down at his floating plaster and wood friend and picked at the edges. They were jagged and splintered from the explosion, charred and cracked from the fire. He watched the wrinkled, powdery-dry skin of his forefinger catch on the sharp (if not waterlogged) wood and snag it. It didn't break his skin, though. Just pulled. Just gave him this tiny sharp little prick of pain. He welcomed that feeling.

Distractedly, he wondered what he would become if he did indeed lose his dad like his kidnappers had threatened. He wondered what he would become if he lost the rest of his pack.

He wondered if he would become like his dad: bottling every ounce of pain beneath the soul of the most respectable and truly _good_ man the world has ever known, launching into a life of righteousness and loyalty, only to drink himself to depression whenever his mind gets away from him too much? Or would be become like Derek: shut in, quiet, a dark enough exterior to keep people away but too soft and scared on the inside to be much of a threat? Or would he become like Peter: damaged to the point of deception, perfectly well-adjusted on the outside, but cunning and dangerous underneath, causing havoc everywhere, yet for no one to know?

He sighed, deciding to stop fretting.

He looked at the sky, where the sun was still hanging high, a few clouds accumulating over the bright, shimmering water, and thought, _at least I'm not stuck here with Derek._

Like, he loves the dude, but he is the _worst_ conversationalist.

Stiles' heart clenched and he jerked over to look beside him when he thought he saw a shadow move, but saw nothing there. His eyes wildly looked around, and he wondered for a moment if it had been a shark fin. If a shark was about to fly out of the water and eat him like table scraps. God damn, it would be a shame for him to go out like that without anyone there to witness such a fantastic death.

But then he heard Derek's soft scoff, a little sound of reluctant amusement. It echoed around in his head, conjured only from memory. He closed his eyes and relaxed again, pushing all thought out of his mind.

Now wasn't the time to get so attached to sentimentality that he begins to hallucinate his own company.

"Nothing against you, my friend," Stiles said to his plaster companion, patting it lovingly with a weak sigh. "We- You and I? We have a special connection."

-

Stiles stared down at his phone. His missed texts and calls from Derek and Peter still glared up at him, unopened. His finger hovered over the button to read them, but he couldn't; He hadn't put the pieces together until just recently - he'd learned that they had been the ones who had found his dad. They had been the ones that brought the Sheriff, deep in shock, home to him. They had been the ones that moved Scott and Melissa's bodies. Their many texts and calls had probably been about... about that.

He didn't want to read what they had to say. He didn't want to listen to Peter's message, telling him that his best friends since childhood - the only other family he had - were dead. He just couldn't handle that.

He thought about erasing the messages. He stared down at the pixellated screen and wondered why it felt as if he was being attacked. Like that _Delete_ button was screaming at him. Yet, he couldn't quite figure out if it was screaming at him to press it, or screaming at him to resist the urge to pull the wool over his eyes and hide.

Stiles, distracted as ever, distantly wondered where they had put their bodies to rest as he turned off his phone and pressed the cool plastic against his chapped lips, closing his eyes. He took in a slow breath through his nose, and steadied himself.

"I'm ready to talk," he said quietly. He was surprised how steady his voice sounded, especially since his heart was still beating a mile a minute inside his chest.

"Take your time," Lydia said back, just as softly.

Stiles slowly let his thoughts flow from him. Sat on her comfortable bed while Lydia sat cross-legged in her new bean-bag chair, he felt comfortable. She had even shut the blinds and dimmed the lights, lit a few candles and had quiet piano and cello music playing. The effort she put in to make him feel safe and at ease was commendable.

While he let his thoughts flow, voicing them out loud whenever he felt he was able to, he tried to keep his emotional side at bay by distracting himself with details. Details like the bean-bag chair. It had been a gift from Jackson. It was a soft pink, fuzzy on one side and cold to the touch on the other. Instead of beans, it had feathers inside, so it was a little lumpy but incredibly soft and poofy.

Details like her makeup. She was only wearing a subtle pink lipstick. Her hair wasn't perfectly styled like usual, but at least it was washed. It curled just a little on the ends where it layed over her shoulders.

She had a blue headband on which matched her blue and white t-shirt. The t-shirt was so far from Lydia's usual style it was kind of disorienting. Still, just like everything Lydia Martin wears, she looked good in it. He wondered if it was Jackson's shirt. It did hang from her shoulder a little like it was a size or two too big. The black BHHS sweat pants she had on were definitely Jackson's. They even had the rip at the bottom of the left pant-leg where Stiles had caught the fabric with his bolt-cutters about six months ago while unchaining him from one of the dozens of hunter bases they've escaped from.

He still remembers the bruise that had stained the skin of his shoulder for nearly two weeks when Jackson punched him for ripping his pants, and he remembered Jackson's yelp of pain when Peter had grabbed his wrist and twisted hard enough to pop his shoulder out of place immediately after.

"Stiles?"

He blinked out of his daze and looked down at Lydia. "Dad said I have to bring them back," he told her. It had been wearing on him in the not-so-distant background ever since he and his father had that talk.

Lydia frowned ever so slightly and blinked down at the bed in thought. "He said you have to bring them back? Why?"

Stiles shrugged heavily. "I don't know." He looked down at his hands and picked at his nails. He'd chewed them so far down they kind of hurt. "He said... He said he believed in me. He said if anyone could do it, it was me. I have to bring them back." He looked back at Lydia when she didn't say anything and it was his turn to frown when he saw her smiling. That little uptick in her lips which displayed her radiant beauty felt like a slap in the face. "What?"

"No, just..." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and her fingers played with one strand. The look on her face was so soft and happy. Even while it hurt to see someone so easily pleased, it was still, somehow, comforting. Like, if she believed everything would be okay, he might be able to believe it too. If only she said the words.

He'd climb to the top of the world if she told him to.

If only she could tell him she believed in him as much as his dad did.

See, his dad said he could bring them back, and Stiles believed him. He really did. But believing he can and actually feeling able to do so are two entirely different things. Someone can believe they can fly if they jump off the edge of a building without ever being suicidal, but just try asking them to prove such a thing and see how far you get.

"I... I _think_ I can...?" Stiles mumbled, frowning deeply down at his hands. "Like, if I think about it, it doesn't seem impossible, but... but at the same time, I don't..." He tried to search his brain, tried to figure out what he was feeling. Why he felt so trapped. "I believe I can, but... but I'm... scared?"

Lydia tilted her head just a little. "I think you're apprehensive about getting your hopes up." Stiles looked up at her and stared into her all-knowing eyes, knowing that she was always correct, to the smallest technicality. "I think you _hope_ you can, and that hope scares you." She shrugged. "How often have we gotten our hopes up only to learn that everything was crashing down around us? That kind of living makes it hard to trust good things."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah." Always, she was right. That broken belief... That's hope he was feeling. It made sense now. He _hoped_ his dad's belief was right. He _hoped_ he could be counted on to bring them back. But a belief fueled only by hope isn't as strong as a belief fueled by _intent._

He already said it himself. How is he supposed to bring someone back from the fucking _dead_ with his barely-there Spark? It's just... if not impossible, then entirely improbable.

He wished he could do it. He hoped he could believe, and he wished the belief was enough...

A long silence stretched on while Stiles spiraled in his head, frowning down at his fingers. He looked up when Lydia moved a little and opened her mouth with words waiting on her tongue, but instead, she sat forward and held out her hand with a sweet smile. Stiles was helpless to obey, and she pulled him down onto the bean bag chair with her. He clasped his hands together between his knees and hung his head while she turned to her side and rested her head on her fist, elbow propped up below her and legs pulled up to rest on Stiles' waist. This proximity was all new to him.

He could feel her soft breath fan over his cheek.

"The last thing Scott said to me was, 'Please don't put itching powder in my shampoo.'" Stiles looked over at her when she paused. From this closeness, he could see every slight imperfection in her perfect face instead of the subtle flakes of her usual makeup hiding her natural beauty from the world and wondered, not for the first time, why she didn't just throw that makeup in the trash and live as herself. Her untainted skin was far more beautiful than the powder that concealed her. "And... the last thing I said to him was, 'don't play with my underwear and maybe I won't.'"

Stiles couldn't help the little grin and chuckle that bubbled their way out of some deep part of him that somehow still had the capacity to feel humor. Still, he felt nausea creeping in strong. "Why-..." He swallowed down bile. "Why was he playing with your underwear?"

"He said it was a favor for Allison but I felt like I was probably better off not knowing the truth." She ran her hand through her hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear. He could smell her shampoo when she moved her hair and wondered what she smelled like naturally. He was realizing that nothing about Lydia had ever been natural. Always so covered up and shrouded in products that she believed would make her beautiful, when she was perfect just as she was.

Stiles sighed to himself.

"The last thing Melissa said to me," Lydia continued, oblivious to his inner distracted frettings, "was, 'Have a great night'." She shrugged with a crooked smile. "Nothing spectacular, but... But it's still nice for that to be the last words we shared."

Stiles nodded. His skin began to feel cold, like the blood was draining from his face. He didn't feel good, and he was pretty sure it was because they were talking about Scott and Melissa like it was perfectly fine that they were gone. Like it was routine. Like they weren't coming back.

He'd much rather just talk about Lydia's perfect skin and pretty hair.

"What about you?"

Stiles looked over at her and felt that bile surge. He choked it down. "How's Allison?" he asked instead.

Lydia looked away. She reached down beside the chair and grabbed her phone and while she tapped away at it, Stiles watched the shape of her lips. Her smile had gotten tense and small. Whether she was reacting to his avoidance of her question or a reaction to how she knew Allison was doing, he didn't know. There was no telling.

"She's okay," Lydia told him. "Her dad hasn't left her side. She's in good hands."

Stiles felt tears approach and he sniffled and nodded, closing his eyes to try to calm himself.

"I think... Do you want me to take you to see her?"

Stiles shook his head with more purpose than necessary. "No. No." He brought his already tear-soaked sleeve to wipe away even more. "She doesn't want to see me."

"I don't think that's true," Lydia replied softly, and her hand settled on his leg soothingly. "Out of everyone she knows, you are the only person who loves Scott as much as she does. I think it would be good for both of you to be in the company of someone who hurts just as much as you do."

And that's the truth, isn't it? He still hurts, and he hurts so much. No amount of hope can seem to fix it. It just... _hurts_. This sharp ache of loss and regret that lingers in his bones. He wondered if it would ever go away.

He sniffled and reached up to press his fingers into his forehead. He was getting a headache. "But I should've-... She should've been my _first_ thought. But instead I didn't even... I didn't even _think_ to check on her-"

"She didn't think to check on you, did she?"

Stiles shrugged, thinking she had a point, but it was different. "But I'm only his friend. She's his _girlfriend_. He-he was gonna-..." Stiles cut himself off and cried quietly, grabbing a fistful of his hair and squeezing tight. He was so sick of crying. He hasn't cried this much since his mom died.

After a long moment, Lydia took in a soft breath and said, quietly, "This isn't the end, Stiles."

"I know." Stiles rolled his eyes. The death of his best friend wasn't end. He knew that.

"I mean, there's more to come," Lydia added enigmatically, a soft smile in her voice. "Everything will be okay in the end."

Stiles didn't know what to say to that, so they sat in silence as he quietly tried to rein in the tears. Lydia stayed with him, hand on his leg. Her perfect nails, painted sky blue and coated in a glossy finish reflected the soft orange light as she swept her thumb back and forth over his jeans. A strand of her hair slipped from behind her ear and dangled onto his shoulder and the soft tickle was, for some reason, absolutely terrifying.

This was the closest he's ever been to anyone other than Scott, his bro. Because he was forever touch starved, and had developed a fear of proximity. Especially from those he admires. The closeness to Lydia was new, and nerve wracking, and scary. Still, it was nice. The weight of her legs resting on his hip was nothing short of the most wonderful thing he'd experienced in weeks.

The silence weighed on, accompanied only by the sound of Stiles' quiet sniffling and the soft music playing from her computer. Stiles tried drifting in and out of distractions, slowly easing himself into some semblance of emotional control.

It was peaceful, a quiet moment shared between two friends, until there was a rap of knuckles on her bedroom door. To Stiles, it was _not_ a welcome distraction.

Lydia sighed and got up and Stiles quietly mourned her departure. He slid into the warm spot she left with a sigh and looked over curiously when she cracked open the door. Isaac, taller than her, easily looked up over her head to see him. "Hey," the curly haired idiot said, waving a little. He didn't have a smile, but his expression was soft and open. Vulnerable and needy. His eyes were red-rimmed with old tears. "Can I come in?"

Lydia looked over her shoulder, silently asking his permission.

He didn't know. He hasn't talked to anyone other than his dad, Lydia and Erica since all of this. It was easier to talk to the girls. They had always been nicer to him. He didn't know how Isaac was feeling. After he and Scott had gotten past the first part of their relationship where they were both standoffish, they had become close friends. But they still had their moments where they butted heads. He hadn't expected Isaac to take this very hard, but... Seems he was mistaken.

"Yeah," Stiles said after a lengthy pause he hadn't meant to let stretch on. Lydia stepped out of the way and let him walk in, shutting the door behind him. "Hey."

Isaac gave a little smile and wandered to her bed hesitantly. He touched her soft sheets and turned and sat down in a way that suggested he was expecting to be yelled at.

Had Stiles done that?

"I was just about to take Stiles to Allison's," Lydia told Isaac, standing equal distances from both the boys like she was ready to mediate something.

"Oh," Isaac said, looking up at her with wide, lost eyes. "Okay... Well..." He bit his lip and twiddled his fingers, then looked down at Stiles. "I just..." He shrugged. "Wanted to see how you were."

Stiles' first knee-jerk reaction was to say _'I'm fine'_ , but the tears on his face and all over his sleeves would make that attempt at defense completely useless. So, he simply said nothing.

"And, I missed you," Isaac offered, looking hopeful.

"Why?" Stiles said dryly without even thinking about the words leaving his mouth. "You were always so busy with Scott you never had any time for me. What's to miss?"

It was only after that he felt the pang of regret, but he was too wounded and tired to care too much. He saw the hurt on Isaac's face mirror the bite of his words, and looked away. Still, he believed there was a time where it was very likely Scott was beginning to like Isaac more than him. They'd spend an entire week playing video games and watching movies at his house after school while Stiles was left to deal with Derek and his pack drama. He'd spent days trying to get Scott's attention, and Scott reciprocated only barely, and only when Stiles had actively seeked him out. Once he got tired of playing third wheel, he gave up, and learned that Scott never tried to reach out to him. Weeks would pass before Scott realized they hadn't talked.

But that time had long since passed. Scott and Stiles had gone through a rough patch, much like a couple married just a bit too long, but they had come back to each other and everything had worked out. So, really, he had no right to be mad at either Scott or Isaac. They'd done nothing wrong.

" _Stiles._ "

He blinked and looked up at Lydia, realizing she and Isaac had been talking, had been saying his name.

"Come on," she said, reaching down and grabbing his hand, helping him to his feet. "I'm taking you to Allison's."

Stiles trailed behind her and looked over his shoulder before he left the door just to see Isaac one last time. Isaac was curled in on himself and his face was pulled tight in pain. Stiles had hurt him that bad. Isaac was his _friend_ , and Stiles had done that.

What's wrong with him?

The sky was dark. Stiles rested his head on the window and stared up at the cloudless atmosphere. A few stars twinkled above and he remembered a day, long before Scott ever got bitten - a simpler time, when he, Scott, his dad and Melissa had brought out sleeping bags to the back yard and watched a meteor shower.

To think they had once been so innocent and happy.

When they walked to Allison's porch and Lydia knocked on the door, he could've sworn he heard her familiar, beautiful laugh inside. He was proven correct when Chris opened the door with a wide smile and behind him, sat on the couch, Allison was sat, an arm over the back to look at the door, with a huge grin on her face.

Stiles' face, ever the billboard, could've only shown one thing: shock and utter betrayal. How could she be so perfectly gleeful right now?

"Stiles," Chris greeted sweetly, seemingly missing the emotions radiating from Stiles' face. "Lydia. Come in."

Stiles numbly followed, feeling shaken to the core when Allison jumped up and ran to him, hugging him hard. How did she have so much energy? Her hair was messy and unwashed, and there were lingering tears in her eyes, but she seemed so... _alive._

It felt like a personal insult to Scott.

All he wanted to do was scream his confusion and anger. He could hardly muster the energy to walk across the room on his own. How could she be so easily healthy? He was surely pissed, but he stayed silent and let her hug him. "I'm so sorry, Stiles," she said to him, voice so steady and strong. "I'm so, so sorry."

Shouldn't he be saying that to her?

She leaned back and held his shoulders, looking into his eyes. "You were his best friend, you know that? He never stopped talking about you. Every conversation, you came up."

_Yeah, except it was the other way around, Allison_ , he wanted to say. _It was all I could do to get him to stop talking about you and focus on the moment. All I've ever done since he met you was compete for his attention. He was all I had. And then you started taking him away from me. And now you can't even care enough to hurt like I do? All of that, all that he's done for you, and now he's gone and you're **fine?!**_

Stiles gritted his teeth and hushed the anger in his head.

"He loved you more than anyone else in the world - even me. He would've wanted you to know that," she finished, giving him an easy smile. Still, Stiles was almost certain she was wrong. If it ever came down to Scott's decision of him over her, he'd pick Allison. Stiles was sure of it. Scott has _proved_ it.

His insides boiled. His teeth clenched together and he tried his best to keep it out of his expression. Seeing Allison was a bad idea. It was the worst idea, he's learning. Because, aside from the twinge of inaccuracies and the sting of betrayal and the burn of seeing her so perfectly fine while he still can't even muster the care to eat, one thing screamed in his head from her constant use of the past-tense when relating to Scott - one thing became rooted so deeply and quickly he never could've expected its sudden company. Each time she used past-tense, he wanted to scream at her, _He's not gone yet! Neither of them are! Not until I say so! Not until I've gotten my chance to try to bring them back!_

It was unexpected to feel what his dad had told him to feel so intensely. But, even so, there it was; this burning _need_ to convince people that Scott and Melissa weren't gone yet. Not yet. He hadn't had a chance to change their minds. He hadn't had a chance to change the facts yet. They couldn't give up just yet - he might still be able to bring them back.

He just needed the chance to _try_.

He realized, while Allison and Lydia talked about nonsense he didn't care about, that he shared his dad's sentiments.

He didn't believe they were yet forever gone.

He still can't figure out if that urge inside is his "belief" in himself to bring them back, but he damn well knows he's going to try until the stars burn out.

The rest of the night was a blur. Lydia and Allison dragged Stiles up to her room and they talked about things - mostly Allison's loss of Scott, and Lydia mentioned cancelling her party. Stiles stayed silent, and neither girl pressed him. He occupied himself with his newfound push towards a distant goal, slowly becoming all encompassing and deep-rooted. He had to bring Scott and Melissa back. He wasn't going to just whine and worry about it anymore. No, he was going to do something about it.

But he's scared.

He's so scared. He's paralyzed with fear, frozen in the wake of his loss.

He was ripped out of his mind when then they began to talk about last words shared with Scott and his mom. Stiles, listening to them share their stories, felt panic and shame seep in, making his stomach weak and his chest tight. His mind was hurled onto a painfully emotional path as he replayed his last conversation with Scott. The pain it wrought was deep-set and lingering, like a deep-tissue bruise. Unlike the quick sting of a knife, a bruise was far harder to fight past. It lingered. It festered. He was harboring a secret that could change Allison's mind on how strong she believed she was for coming out of Scott's death, and that lingering pain inside of his very fucking soul was impossible to ignore.

Allison looked over at Stiles for the first time since they sat down in her room, and he glanced up at her and paled. He braced for what he knew was coming. "Stiles, what were your last words with Scott?"

Stiles didn't spare a second. He jumped up and he left the room, slamming the door behind him. He let himself feel the rising anxiety and adrenaline as he made his way through the house. He passed Chris in the living room, ignoring his worried beckonings, and he walked right out the front door.

He kept walking; down the street and into the woods. Their last conversation still echoed inside of his head like the poison of cruel irony and he wished he could just forget the sweet, impossibly happy tone of his voice.

_"Stiles... I have something to tell you..."_

_"And you have to promise not to tell anyone..."_

_"I'm going to ask Allison to marry me..."_

_"And I want you to be my best man..."_

Stiles closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the tears that flowed as he replayed the memory of Scott's flushed cheeks and star-bright smile when he had told him.

Scott had been making a future for himself. And it was stolen from him.

_Why?!_


	5. Chapter 5

_"When you were standing in the wake of devastation  
When you were waiting on the edge of the unknown  
And with the cataclysm raining down  
Insides crying, "Save me now!"  
You were there, impossibly alone"_

**- _Iridescent,_ Linkin Park**

He could imagine it. Scott's wedding, that is. He could imagine he and his best friend getting dressed up in semi-good tuxedos, because there's no way money would be in overabundance, even with help. But they'd be the best-looking cheap-asses there, regardless!

He could imagine Melissa hounding the caterers and the brides maids or whatever actually goes on at a wedding. He could imagine his dad sneaking some whiskey in a flask to the wedding and taking a swig whenever he could to calm his emotions so that he could pretend to be the stone-solid _manly man_ he likes to think he is. He could imagine Lydia and Erica in matching dresses that would somehow be tactical (because they're never not prepared... Stiles is still trying to figure out where the hell Lydia had hidden that dagger last month...), and Allison, in some kind of elegant head-turning, room-silencing dress that knocked everyone off their feet, her huge, radiant smile matching Scott's.

He could imagine Derek lurking somewhere in the corner, or maybe Melissa and the Sheriff manage to pull him into one of the seats. He might wear a tux... Maybe? He's not sure. Just the thought of Derek Hale in a tuxedo is trying to break his brain, so he skipped that inquiry.

He could imagine Peter... Oh, Peter... He could imagine him making sure he was dressed as wonderfully as possible without looking like he truly tried. Because he wouldn't care enough about Scott's life-changing day to actually put in the effort and the money into the best suit in the business, but he wouldn't be caught dead somewhere even slightly high-class without looking impeccably drool-worthy.

He could imagine it all. He really could. As he stared out at the water with unfocused eyes, he could almost see it playing out in front of him. He could almost see the rows of chairs and plenty of flowers, a podium and a small stage materializing over the water. He could see pale whites, soft pinks, and sharp reds. He could see ribbon and lace, maybe a little garlin, even some strategically decorative vines and bushes. He could see all of his friends wandering in, choosing (and fighting over) their chairs, and he could see Scott up front, waiting, with tears rimming his smiling eyes. And then he could hear the music. And he could see Chris walking down the aisle with Allison at his arm.

As he let it play out, he imagined himself sitting next to his dad, Derek on the other side of him (for the sake of his mental health, he imagined Derek in his usual henleys and jeans). In the row in front of them, he imagined the rest of the pack, Erica, Jackson, Lydia, Isaac, et cetera et cetera. He imagined Peter walking in just when no one thought he would show, and he imagined him gravitating towards Stiles' row. Maybe he and Derek would switch seats so that Peter could be right beside Stiles. Either way, Zombiewolf would send him a wink, a sweet little smile, and then settle down. And, because Peter and Chris had actually become relatively okay friends lately, the hunter would end up on their aisle once he had handed off Allison.

He imagined a calmness... Like everyone was finally content.

And he imagined, once the ceremony was over, Jackson pulling Lydia onto the podium in front of everyone. Everyone would go silent and still, anticipation rising in the air (because come on, those two are the most dysfunctional pair in the world, but they were _meant_ for each other and everyone has known it for a very long time). Then, Jackson would lower to one knee, and present some kind of ridiculous ring to Lydia that would hardly be practical (and which she would probably never actually wear), and Lydia would cover her mouth with her perfectly manicured hands and smile the happiest smile she's probably ever shared in her entire life while tears flooded into her beautiful green eyes.

He imagined... happiness.

He just wanted everyone to be happy. No stress, no fear, no pain or loss. Just happiness. Could it really be so much to ask for? He just wanted to go home, find someone to settle down with, and never have to wait at the door wondering if the people he cares about will come home alive or in a body bag.

He was so alone. That bottom that people talk about? That point, lowest of the lows... He's hit it. He's hit the bottom. And he never wants to get close to this deep again. He's done. He's absolutely sick of fighting battles he has no business trying to win. Berserkers? Fairies? Fucking Fae?! Screw all of that. He'll settle with werewolves and the occasional banshee, but that's about it.

Stiles let that rest inside of him for a while, let himself feel that finality while he stared at the flat horizon. His eyes slowly tracked the accumulating clouds in the sky while satisfying thoughts of abandoning all of his duties floated and fogged up his head like the humidity in the sky. He flicked his fingers lazily in the water... And then he huffed and rubbed his face, shaking his head. Of course he couldn't just give up on everything like that. He'll never get out of this life. He wouldn't allow himself to, in the end. When he dies - and he will, one day, if not today - he'll do it in the woods, fighting something bigger than himself (literally and metaphorically) in order to save the lives of innocent people in its path. That's how he'll die. That's how he figured he'd die from the moment he figured out that Scott wasn't human anymore. The same moment he knew he'd never be the same again.

It would be okay, in the end. Because when the end comes, he won't die sad. Whether it's sooner or later, when the end comes, he will smile. He'll smile, because he knows-... Well, like Peter once said to him, _"Not every ending is strictly final. Sometimes, it's simply necessary in leading to the beginning of a chapter yet to come."_

-

It was stupid to run off like that. He knew that now.

One of his biggest mistakes - besides running off, of course - was when he'd thrown his phone into a tree and broke it after the first few calls from Chris and ran away from it in a fit of childish rage. Then, he circled back to find it and got lost... So lost... The second time he could've sworn he was going the right way but was absolutely sure he was in a new part of the woods, he turned to the nearest tree and lashed out with a fist a few times, then cried out in pain and clutched his bleeding and aching knuckles.

Now, he wandered with his hands in his pockets, one throbbing and screaming against the drag of the fabric on his newly raw skin, through the trees and bushes. Over rocks and logs and under branches. He was crying. Silently. Nothing more than a constant trickle of tears. He felt beaten and broken and cold. The anger had worn off, depression taking its place.

He thought about screaming. Shouting into the air and hoping someone was close enough to hear, but he winced and kept his head down when he remembered what these woods truly had to offer. There was danger at every turn. There have been way too many supernatural creatures with a taste for skinny, lanky humans in these woods. He's lucky he's made it this long without something jumping out and trying to kill him.

And there it is. There is that troubling pattern he's noticed. Always with the worrying! Always expecting to be hurt! Always alone! Always! Always alone, looking over his shoulder, expecting to be attacked! Why was that so common for him? Why was he always alone and in danger? Why was he always hoping for someone to save him but only being able to count on no one but himself?

He wanted to cry again. He wanted to have the energy to scream and break things, but instead he was drained... If something happened to him in these woods tonight, he couldn't even count on himself. He's completely vulnerable. He's completely at the mercy of anything else around him. It was pitch dark, and scary. He just wanted to be safe again.

It was at that exact second that he heard footsteps quickly approaching from behind. God fucking damn it!

He didn't scream or run. He didn't even turn around, and in that moment he didn't _want_ to know what was going to kill him. He simply froze and braced for impact and pain.

He waited with his heart racing hard when the footsteps slowed and stopped behind him. He waited for a knife to the back. Claws to the gut. A bullet to the head. Something. Anything. But, instead, eliciting a flinch, a heavy felt jacket settled on his shoulders and two hands gripped his upper arms, guiding him to a tree and gently pushing him down to a sit on the log beside it.

He wondered if this was someone here to save him, and he felt a heavier rush of tears fill his eyes. He wanted to sob again, this time in relief. It was a much stronger reaction than he expected, but he was so damn relieved to be saved. He'd never been more thankful. He'd never yearned to be able to just throw in the towel and have someone carry him through the flames ever before. He'd always been his own strength, but he had no strength left. He needed someone else to be strong for him right now.

"Chris called me." It was Peter. Peter, who had found him. Who had rescued him. Who came around to crouch in front of him and gently took his bleeding knuckles into his hand. Stiles avoided his eyes, and instead stared at his larger hands. The soft glow of the nearly-full moon hanging somewhere close in the sky illuminated the veins that textured the back of his hands, crawling up his wrists all the way to his forearms. He, for some reason, wanted to reach out and trail his finger across one.

"You know, he never does that," Peter continued while he pulled a piece of bark out of the knuckle of Stiles' ring finger. Stiles' eyes climbed up Peter's muscular arms and to his v-neck - one of many. This one was soft, grey, subtly horizontally striped. Instead of a v-neck that shows most of his chest, this one was reserved, cut right to his collar bone. Even with the tight cut of the neck, it still looked soft and loose. He tried to imagine the heavy felt jacket over top the v-neck. It was stylish. Too stylish for the pack's company, nor Peter's own, which meant he had been in the middle of something when he rushed to find Stiles...

"Usually, if he really needs me, he just calls Derek. Or, at the very most, texts me." Stiles winced in pain when Peter ran his thumb over his raw knuckles to brush away some of the dirt. "Something short and to the point..." Peter picked out another piece of bark and then started bending and unbending Stiles' fingers. It hurt, and Stiles jerked his hand when he bent too far. Peter took some of the pain - just enough to take the edge off but not nearly enough to make it all go away. Then, he looked up into Stiles' eyes again. Stiles glanced into their azure captivity, then looked away into the darkness. It felt colder, somehow. _"_ You really scared him, Stiles."

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned his head away. "He barely knows me." He wishes he'd been left alone, now. The last thing he needed right now was Peter fucking Hale and his manipulative ways. What is he trying to do? Is he _trying_ to make Stiles feel even more shitty than he already is? "I'm just the spastic kid that hangs out with his daughter's boyfriend." His voice became heavy and tired. "I'm no one."

"And yet, he called _me_. And spent nearly five minutes of my time practically _rambling_ about how he should've never let you get out that door. Do you know how worried he was you were hurt?"

"I'm fine," Stiles mumbled.

Then Stiles jerked and glared when Peter grabbed his chin to turn his head back to his. He got in Stiles' face with a chilly, dangerous glare and said, deeply, "Next time you think of running off with no protection, don't expect someone to come running to your rescue."

Stiles glared at him when he let go and stood up, turning around and stepping away, looking at the sky. Presumably trying to find his direction back to town. As if he had completely dismissed Stiles. What was he thinking, making Peter out to be his "savior"? Peter doesn't care about him. He only cares about himself, and all Stiles is to him is an inconvenience.

The heat of anger was welcome company.

"I never expect someone to come running to my rescue," he said lowly. Peter didn't look at him, and it made him even angrier. He didn't want to be disregarded! "How can I trust a-a pack of wolves who don't even like me to come save me wh-when I can hardly trust my _closest friend_ to give enough of a shit about me to help me when he'd rather be with his girlfriend-"

Peter stepped up to him and craned his neck to glare up at him. "Don't take your anger out on Scott just because he's not here to hear your words." He took a pause and shook his head just slightly. "You saw Allison, I presume?"

"She was fine!" Stiles erupted, throwing his hands in the air before clenching them into fists. He hated that he was telling Peter _anything_. If he was going to confide in anyone, it would be Lydia. Not _him_. Not he who was responsible for turning their lives upside down. Who was responsible for all of the danger that he and Scott have been put in since the very start of this.

But he had to talk to someone. It was killing him. Suffocating him from the inside out. He needed _someone._ And, at that moment in which he was breaking down, the only someone there with him in the dark woods at night was Peter.

"She-she- She was laughing! She was _laughing_ , Peter! Like everything was _fine!_ " Peter frowned and crouched back down again, leaning against the tree so that Stiles didn't have to crane his neck to look at him. And Peter just... listened.

" _And she-_ " A venomous laugh left his mouth, and it felt sick. "She always said she _loved_ him!... She-she doesn't _love_ him! If she loved him even _half_ as much as I did, she wouldn't be able to laugh! How _dare_ she claim she loves him! She-she barely even _knows_ him! _I_ know him! I've known him all my life and she's known him, what, since _highschool?!_ And Scott just _believed_ her when she said she loved him! He just believed her-her _lies_. She doesn't- She doesn't _know_ \- She doesn't..." He looked over at Peter. Looked over at that blank expression, with just a hidden touch of _pity_ in his eyes. Not hidden well enough, though. Stiles knows where to look beneath the Hales' masks to see what they're thinking inside. He gritted his teeth and buried his face in his hands.

He didn't want pity. He wanted...

He wanted...

He didn't know what he wanted.

He wanted Scott and Melissa back.

"I just don't understand why he liked her more than me if I'm the only one hurting after he's gone," he whined quietly. " _Why_ am I the only one hurting?"

"Like you said, you were closest to him. It was always _Stiles and Scott_ ," Peter said easily, surely, like he had all of the answers of the universe. "It's only natural you feel the emptiness of his absence so much more than the rest."

"But... But Allison-..." He rubbed his face again. "It's not like they're not close. They never went more than ten minutes without talking to each other. Scott sometimes ignored me for _days_ because he was too busy with _her_."

Peter's lips pressed together as he looked off in the distance in a way that practically mirrored Derek. His eyes raked Peter's profile and he wondered, not for the first time, if he got it from Derek, or if Derek got it from him. "Teenage love," Peter said, and Stiles watched his lips, distractedly trying to see Derek in them, "is very much fueled by sexual desire. Because of this, it is mainly short-lived, tense and drama-filled, and _completely_ blown out of proportion." Stiles looked back into Peter's arctic eyes when he looked over at him. "To Scott, Allison was only a sex object. To Allison, he was the same."

Stiles opened his mouth with a deep-set frown, the words, _'but he was going to propose to her'_ on his tongue, but he held it back. He held Scott's last secret inside, no matter how hard it fought to come out so it could be upon someone else's shoulders and not just his own. If he had to carry Scott's last secret to the grave with him, then he would. It meant too much to him.

It's just... if Scott was going to propose, it had to be more than just sex. It had to be love. It had to be.

"Maybe she did love him," Stiles mumbled after a long silence, staring down at his bleeding hand. "So... She hurts less than me... Maybe that's just because she's stronger than me." Maybe they did love each other. Maybe, if they had gotten married, they would've stayed happily married for years and years and died when they should, old and wrinkled with too much money, happy.

"No, she-"

"I don't want to believe they weren't right for each other!" Stiles shouted suddenly. So suddenly, even he himself hadn't expected it. Peter leveled him with a stare for a moment, then looked away while the sound he had created faintly echoed off of the cliff they must be near. He just wanted to believe everything was good and happy. He wanted to believe that everyone had the best intentions.

He wanted to believe that, if he could bring them back, Scott and Allison could still be happy together - could still have the future that he had been planning.

"I just miss them so much," Stiles said, and he choked on the last word. He put his face in his hand again and sniffled loudly. He wasn't going to cry in front of Peter. He wouldn't.

"Well throwing a fit about it won't bring them back, will it?" Peter said to him as he got up. Stiles blinked away his tears and watched them fall to the dark ground between his feet. The shiny wetness slid slowly down the side of a rotting leaf. "You're angry and upset, and for good reason, but life has to continue and you still affect others around you. I'll tell you, Stiles, usually I don't mind your company - I might even go so far as to admit I may _enjoy_ it. But right now?" A short pause. "You're so caught up in what you've lost, you're pushing away what you still have." A longer pause. "Isaac stopped by the loft..." Stiles glanced up at him, but Peter didn't meet his gaze. Instead, in a harsher tone, he spat, "Will you really let this be what you become out of this?" Stiles frowned, wiping his face. "Like _me?_ " Peter added, softer. While he wanted to be _pissed_ at Peter's harsh words in his time of vulnerability, a part of him agreed wholeheartedly with Peter. This isn't what Scott and Melissa would want. It isn't what he himself wants.

He kept thinking about what his dad had said. He knows - the rational part of him, least - that he should use this anger and pain to fuel his search into bringing them back. He just needs to do it. Screw the fear. Screw the wariness of hope. Screw the anxiety of going in too deep only to reach the end of the road to realize there really is no way to bring them back.

It'll never happen if he never tries. He's always been a fan of ignoring a problem until it eventually goes away. But this isn't a problem...

This is a journey.

It only takes one step... The first step is always the hardest, but once it's taken...

Stiles gasped when Peter grabbed his wrist and rudely pulled him to his feet and began towing him along, just all of a sudden. "I do mean it, Stiles," he said, yanking Stiles up to stare right into his eyes, ignoring his indignant huff, "Don't you _ever_ do something this stupid again." Stiles huffed again and yanked his wrist out of his hold. "You've done a lot of stupid things before but I at least thought you knew better by now."

_Whatever,_ Stiles thought, and frowned at the ground as he walked, lost in thought. He had more important things to think about.

Stiles followed Peter out of the woods in silence and, all the while, his father's words echoed in his head; _"I believe you'll bring them back."_

He's been avoiding it, avoiding that first step. But no longer.

He'll have to start from the beginning. He'll have to treat this like every other case he's ever had to work on. And so he did, while they walked. He turned around ideas in his head. Planning it out. He'd look online, maybe check some books at the library. He'd gather lore, myths, highlight names and spells. Maybe he'd talk to Deaton, maybe Derek. Maybe he might even talk to Peter. Surely Lydia would know something.

He'll go home and make an outline, just like he always does. He'll put his case board back together and he'll grab his string and he'll begin building.

Eventually, he blinked out of his head and looked up at Peter, the only one here. The _only one_ who came to find him. Regardless if it had been Derek or his dad that would've been here had Chris called them instead, still he was here. He was here, and he was leading him out of danger.

"Thank you," Stiles said, and Peter slowed to a stop, looking over at Stiles when he caught up. "For... for finding me."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes dismissively. "Thank your emotions. Any werewolf within a ten mile radius could've smelled your childish temper tantrum." Under that snarky fucking comment, though, Stiles still saw genuine emotion. Somewhere under that cold exterior, Peter felt something.

Stiles was envious.

When they reached the road where Peter had parked the car, he asked Stiles if he wanted to stay at Chris' or have him take him home, and Stiles said he preferred the ladder. "You don't want to let the friends you ran out on know you're home safe?" Peter asked him.

Stiles didn't know how to answer, mouth stuck open with halted words on his tongue, and Peter only glanced at him with a noncommittal look and shrugged. "Whatever. Though it's certainly a shame we can't see that funny little vein that bulges in Chris' forehead when neither of us tell him the outcome of your little stunt in the woods."

Stiles swallowed, tongue working behind his teeth and a little shimmer of humor sparking within all of the anger and pain. He cocked his jaw, then forced out, "It's not so little," after a long pause - a pause longer than would be generally accepted to continue conversation. Still, Peter looked over at him, a blank look at first, then his lips quirked up into a tilted smirk. What made it real, though, was when his eyes crinkled at the edges in genuine amusement.

It eased whatever tension there had been between them.

It even eased the tension inside.

Stiles saw that his dad wasn't home when they pulled into the driveway. It was a relief. This way, he'll be free to do what he wants on his own time.

He unbuckled and climbed out, and hesitated. He looked back in at Peter, who gave him a inquiring expression. "Yes, dear?"

Stiles made a face at him even though he was actually getting used to the constant pet names, but still said, "Do you really think I'm pushing everyone away?"

Peter bounced an eyebrow dismissively. "Oh, it's painfully obvious. If you don't see it you're either oblivious or once again lying to yourself." Stiles frowned, and Peter continued slower, a little bit softer, but firmly, "You're directing all of your anger at everyone around you... but then..." A smirk. "Who am I to judge?" Stiles felt the humor glimmer somewhere inside again, and a tiny barely-there smile crept onto his lips, and Peter winked in response.

Peter reached over and pulled Stiles' door shut and said through the open window, "Get your hand checked out. I honestly don't know what you thought you'd gain from punching a tree, but you might've cracked a bone or two." Stiles nodded slowly, too confused to even know what to say, and pulled a face when Peter sent him a semi-stern, semi-playful glance that could've been interpreted literally any way before hauling ass down the road at an unnecessary speed.

As Stiles watched the Camero tear down the road, he wondered why he felt okay now. He's never had to depend on the older wolf for much more than witty banter, snarky half-insults, and the occasional act of obligatory rescue. He's never been in a situation where he felt terrible - absolutely broken - and had only _him_ to depend on fixing him. But after only the hour he was with him, he feels strangely... okay. Maybe it was the harsh way he told it how it was, or the little moment of humor, or... something...

Maybe he liked the undead creep?

Stiles shook his head and brushed the chill off, then went inside. He glanced around at his house, still the same way it always looked, and looked at his things, still on the table from the night his dad had come home with the news.

He ignored it. He didn't want to deal with it right now. Instead, he went to his room, and slowly pushed the door open, shutting it behind himself. He turned around... and sighed at the mess. He stepped over all of the strewn-about, broken things, turned on his laptop and turned on some good music. Then, taking another deep breath and holding his head high, he began putting everything back together.

He felt that it was very symbolic.

-

Stiles remembered that day like it was yesterday. Lost in the woods, he had felt so alone and unwanted. He was in danger, yet no one - not even Chris - had been out there looking for him.

Except Peter. Peter, who was brute and honest, but still caring and gentle. Why? Why was he there to find him? Why did he give enough of a crap about him to be there? Why, countless times before, has Peter ignored everyone else's problems, even let some of them pitch themselves right towards danger, but through it all, Peter did nothing to harm Stiles. Even in the beginning, when everything Peter did caused harm in some way, Stiles got out of it unscathed. He got out of it with a _choice_. Peter had asked him if he wanted the bite, and _respected him_ when he said no. Why?

It'll be one of the first things he'll need answered when he gets back... But there are a lot more pressing things he wants answers to, like is Lydia okay? Is the pack okay? Is his dad safe, or did his kidnappers get to him like they said they would?

Dad... Stiles misses him. He misses all of them.

He wondered how he had ever possibly believed he was all alone before. Even in school, he had thought he had no one. How could he not see that he'd had his pack, his father, his best friend, so many strangers that could've been more had he given any of them a chance? How could he have ever convinced himself he was unloved and unwanted before? This? Stranded alone in the infinite obscurity of the ocean water? _This_ is solitude. _This_ is desperation.

If only he'd known back then what real solitude was. Maybe then he wouldn't have taken the love around him for granted so easily.


	6. Chapter 6

_"These trials make us who we are  
We're motivated by the scars that we're made of...  
We take our places in the dark  
And turn our hearts to the stars"_

**_-Trials,_ Starset**

There was a plane flying far above. He'd been watching it since it breached the horizon and he noticed the tiny little dot of reflection in the sky - the only feature of interest in this numbing world. Ever since he spotted it, he'd felt anger burning his blood. He'd been gritting his teeth so hard they actually ached. Not just his jaw, his teeth physically ached.

He was so angry. Just so, so angry. Up there, far above, were probably about a hundred people, dressed in their warm, dry clothes, sipping water, probably snacking on peanuts and annoying the passengers around them with loud chewing or noisy snoring or too-frequent trips to the bathroom. Up there were people going about their day, not on their way to dying. They probably hardly thought about their own death. Up there, they all had everything Stiles could only beg for. Food, water, shelter, warmth, company.

And he was stuck down here...

He didn't understand it. How could this happen? How could he be so inconceivably alone, so undeniably fucked, while there were normal people sharing the same general space on earth perfectly content and healthy? How could those people think about the days ahead of them, weeks, months, years, and still take them for granted? How could those people just forget that, at any point, their next breath could be their last? At any moment, their life could be ripped away from them, be it slowly or in one swift move that they'd never see coming...

Stiles will admit, he's taken a lot of things for granted. He himself - even with knowing he'd be facing far more violence than any ordinary person - had taken love, time, happiness, and loss completely for granted. But now - now he wouldn't. He couldn't. His sense of mortality was far too pronounced now. If he survived this - if he even made it one more week, or even fifty more years, he'd live each moment to its fullest. He wouldn't let anything slip away - he'd risk everything just to be able to lie on his deathbed and look back on his life only to smile. "We each hope that, on our deathbed, our regrets may only lie on a handful, while our proudest moments can outshine all the rest."

Stiles couldn't remember who had said that, but he remembered liking the quote quite a bit.

He stared up at the plane and yearned for that communication. If only he could get their attention. If only someone could see him-

For what? Even if they saw him, what were they going to do? Stop the plane?

So he watched it, and he let himself feel angry. It was better, he thought. Best he be a little irate in the fall. Otherwise what was the point in climbing at all? No, he had to fight it at least a little. At least in theory.

He thought of that anger, then felt it all drain away as the longing for company overpowered it. All alone, he thought. All alone, and for what?

He let himself get lost in his head, replaying all of the events that led him up to here. Things he learned, things he gained, things he lost. Ways he could've done it different, ways he couldn't have done it differently at all. Regrets, reliefs, apologies. Hope.

A tear welled up at the edge of his eye and it dried there before it even had a chance to slide down his cheek. He reached a hand up and scratched at it heedlessly.

In the midst of replaying the events of which he had traveled to lead him to this loneliness, he saw Peter. A little glimpse of a chance left unseized, and his mind latched onto it. It trotted down that path like a hound-dog on a mission and he came across so many opportunities he just let slip away. Little openings in conversations for the option of flirtation that he never even caught. The pet-names that he never questioned. The actions that he never appreciated for what they truly were.

All of these little instances that he'd never given himself time to think about, and now, in retrospect (as it is), he sees it all. And he regrets never taking those chances. He regrets taking those little pushes from Peter (the pet names, the lewd comments, the smirks, the winks, the shows of affection, all of it), but never pushing back. If only he'd said something. Maybe if he had been less sarcastic, less defensive. Maybe if he had told Peter 'thank you' more often. Maybe if he had tried putting himself out there enough to get Peter to push back harder. Maybe... maybe if either of them had been blunt to begin with.

Instead, it was this annoying game of tug-of-war in which there were literally no rules, because neither of them knew how to play the game in the first place. Peter pushed, however subtly in his obnoxiously unsubtle way, and Stiles fell away with his sarcasm and obliviousness thwarting all of Peter's attempts to make a quiet move. One of them dropped the rope, and the other was still trying to play the game, nevermind there not being a second player.

They were ridiculous, the two of them. Absolutely ridiculous.

If he and Peter had pulled their heads out of their asses sooner, he wouldn’t have been so alone. If they had spent that night together, maybe he wouldn’t have been taken by his kidnappers. Maybe he would’ve stopped them. Or maybe, at least, they would’ve taken him, too. Maybe he wouldn’t be so alone.

After the plane was past the horizon and he lost sight of it forever, he went back to staring into the water. After a long time, an eerie stillness took over and killed the endless rippling. There was suddenly no wind, no disturbances. It felt like he was suddenly locked in an airtight room, hidden away from the world, alone. On a planet inhabited by billions, he was unfortunate enough to have no one.

The surface of the ocean - at least where he resided - turned into a near-perfect mirror, and the thing that stared back at him was absolutely terrifying.

He stared into his reflection and felt his heart clench in fear. Dread of the distant future. A grim future.

His hair was nearly matted, dried in awkward angles and gruesome tangles. His skin was dry and salt was cracked across his cheeks, mouth, forehead. The wounds he sustained in the explosion were having a tough time healing so they were scabbed and raw. His clothes were disgusting - covered in sea-grime. He looked like the ass-end of nature. Ugly and gross.

He didn't bother reaching into the water to wipe off his dirty face. What good would it do, anyway? Instead, he stared into his own eyes.

It was terrifying because this face, this familiarly foreign face with brown eyes that had never seemed so dull, might be the last face he ever saw.

Stiles' closed his eyes. The skin of his face pulled taut uncomfortably when he winced from the sun. The salt on his skin cracked, and he brushed away the grime.

He grinned, as a song began playing crystal clear in his head. He could hear the beat. Could feel the changing frequencies of each change in pitch. The melody rocked along with him as he quietly sung with his gravelly voice, "The berth surrounding my body, crushing every bit of bone. The salt, it seeps in through the pores of my open skin..."

He dangled his fingers into the water and felt as if he resonated with the waves far beneath the surface, the currents of the water all the way down to the midnight-black waters of the abyssal layers.

"The sweet surrender of silence forces me to live alone. Where the hell is peace of mind? I wait on you inside the bottom of the deep blue sea..."

Stiles took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Peter's blue eyes peered at him through the window of memory and the chill from their icey color cooled his too-warm skin.

"I wait on you inside the bottom of the deep blue..."

-

Not everything was back in place. The shelf was still broken, so everything that had been on it was piled on the floor in the corner, but Stiles didn't care. It was only the metaphor that he needed.

He felt like he'd been able to take some time to mend some cracks in his soul. Or whatever. His room had been torn apart and wrecked, just like himself, but he was able to put it back together. He was at the point he could bring the shattered pieces of himself back together and continue moving forward. Now that he has an end goal and a path to get there, he feels better. He feels _worlds_ better. He no longer feels so lost and helpless. He no longer feels trapped beneath some unmovable weight. He feels strong. He feels capable.

He was back in his routine. Has been all night, even without the help of medication (he'd looked for it, but he's pretty sure his dad took it at some point so he couldn't overdose). There were three notebooks spread out on his desk - one labeled _Online_ , one labeled _Books_ , and one labeled _Other_. He's used the same notebooks for all kinds of research, so the pages were crumpled and the binding was under strain from other pieces of paper or documents taped inside the pages they held. There were dozens of bright tabs sticking out of them, and each was labeled so that he could quickly flip through to whatever research he wanted to go back over.

After hours of researching a new topic, he flipped to a new page in the _Online_ notebook and wrote down a phrase (they were either statements or questions) - this one in particular being, "Moon has impact on energy". He wrote down the website he'd found the following information on, then included the excerpt:

_"When something dies, its energy has a tendency to linger. This is why ghosts stay at the site where they died, regardless of the removal of their body. Over time, that energy dissipates, but not all at once. When the moon is at its darkest phase - the new moon - energy has less pull than it will all month. Think of energy like magnets. Without another magnet near it, it is without influence. The full moon is that magnet. The full moon closest to the time something dies is when the energy will be most reactive. It is easiest to feel and manipulate at this time."_

The notebooks were full of bogus information that he goes back and highlights in red whenever he finds out the truth. This, he knew, could always end up shaded in red in the end. Still, he never lets any information go unlisted.

He went on to the next website, and continued his routine.

He still had no books. He hadn't trusted himself to drive all the way to the library with so little sleep. He may have made a dangerous decision yesterday that surely could've ended up with him in danger, but he wasn't suicidal. He also wouldn't risk hurting Roscoe. Still, he had the internet, and while a large amount of it consisted of idiots spewing their disgusting inaccuracies all over the people unfortunate enough to come across it, it also has a few gems that he couldn't have come across in any book.

Books can't play videos, for example. And while videos are great for watching cats fall off of things, they're also great for research of _any_ kind. Including the supernatural kind. It astonished him at first to see just how much accuracy about the supernatural world was on on the internet. Even a video where a werewolf shifted was uploaded on Youtube and had nearly ten-thousand views, yet still, the secret stays kept.

_Whew..._

He hasn't been able to put anything on his case board yet. He doesn't have enough information to do that. He's still trying to collect some info, answer a few questions he has, find a few questions he _should_ have. And he found he was struggling to find them. He only has the vague, obtuse questions. It always starts that way, but once he gets enough information accumulated, he's able to ask more refined, specific questions.

He was planning on talking to Deaton at some point. Surely the druid had some knowledge about resurrection. He'd set up a meeting as soon as possible.

Stiles typed away on his computer, music blasting in his ears as usual. About an hour passed before he saw a shadow creep at the edge of his door. He stopped and looked over his shoulder as he pulled out his earbuds. The figure at his door was quiet, just standing there. Waiting.

He pressed his lips together with a barely raised brow but figured it was his dad with his ear to the door, listening. Probably to see if he was asleep, or crying, or something. After nearly ten seconds (which was an eternity in his world), he went back to his work, popping one earbud back in.

Another five seconds later probably, there was a knock on his door and a tentative, "Stiles?" from his father.

"Yeah," Stiles replied, and winced at how wet and gravely his voice was.

His dad opened the door, stepped in, and shut it behind him. Stiles continued working, and his dad watched. "What... What are you working on?" the Sheriff asked in a poorly conceived awkward tone with too much inflection.

"Research."

His dad slowly wandered to the bed and eased down on the corner. From the corner of his eye, Stiles watched him stare down at his hands, winding his fingers together. He watched him rub his ring finger, where his ring should be, and he turned his head away to lean over a notebook. "I'm uh... I'm glad to see you up."

"Mm-hmm."

"And you picked up your room. That's good." A long pause. A glance at the reflection in the computer screen told him that his dad was staring at him. "Isaac left something for you. Downstairs. I didn't look in it."

"Mmh." Probably some kind of peace offering.

"It's in a small box. Felt kind of heavy..." He listened to his dad swallow. "Do you want me to bring it up here for you?"

"Okay."

A quick pause, then his dad let out an awkward, unnatural chuckle, and said, "Taking speaking lessons from Derek, then, are we?"

Stiles froze, feeling a chill run down his spine. His father was attempting humor in a tense situation? That's never good. The last time he did that, he told Stiles that Melissa was in the hospital for a broken wrist that she'd gotten from falling off a stool while trying to replace a light bulb. And every time before that, it was either bad news that he really wanted to "ease into", or a favor he wanted to ask without being too "pushy".

He turned and leveled his father with a flat look. "What do you want?"

The Sheriff sighed and his fake smile fell into something guilty and resigned. "Peter called me." Stiles closed his eyes and felt his throat clench in the urge to grumble. Damn it, Peter. He never can just leave things alone. "He told me what happened."

"Dad-"

"No, just wait." His dad ducked his head as he tapped a finger in the air at him. "I understand that Allison isn't... I understand she's reacting in a way that bothered you. But you can't be mad at her for that. People-... In my job, I've seen that people react to things differently. Sometimes _very_ differently. Me? I drink when I get bad news." He held his hands up when Stiles' eyes fell to the ground. "Bad habit. I know. Now, you? You put everything you've got into beating it. Whatever it is, you try to beat it. And, as we learned now, when something is too big to beat, you... you-"

"Stop." Stiles sat back in his seat with a little sigh. "I don't need you to tell me how bad I am at dealing with things I can't control."

"My point is, Allison... Nothing against her, but completely opposite of you, she believes _nothing_ is in her hands. Something bad happens, she lets her dad deal with it. No weight on her shoulders, so it's easy to get over things." His dad shrugged, then leaned his elbows on his knees. "Peter said you asked Chris to drive you home _without_ talking to the girls-" What? "-which was a bad idea... He said Allison and Lydia were upset that you left like that. But, I think they were more worried they made _you_ upset... And I think it's only fair you talk to them, at least just to let them know you're not angry at them."

A frown had been steadily growing on Stiles' face at his father's lack of mentioning the whole _running off into the woods and getting lost_ thing, and wondered... had Peter really not told his dad that? Is that why he thinks Chris drove him home instead of Peter?

Did Peter Hale just save Stiles from getting grounded for eternity?

"I... Stiles, I think you're pushing your friends away." His dad looked him straight in the eyes and Stiles met them. Apparently he and Zombiewolf feel the same. They used the same exact words... Have they been talking to each other? Obviously they have - Peter _called his dad._ Damn it. "And I'm gonna tell you right now - that's not something you want to do." A pause. "You and I both know the reality - your friends are everything to you. They're all you have. They're..." His eyes jumped around the room and he smirked a little bit. "They're your pack." His dad never did like that word. He'd said long ago that it just made him feel weird talking about people like they were animals. "And you shouldn't let that slip away just because you're upset not everyone is as consumed with this as you are."

Stiles swallowed and nodded, then a silence stretched on. He was kind of getting annoyed of getting the same things said to him. He didn't need to hear anything a second time. Peter did well enough to point out the way he was treating his friends wasn't okay.

He turned himself back in forth in his chair with his foot, then after it was too quiet for too long, he gestured to his desk. "I'm looking into ways to bring them back." His dad stared at the mess on his desk, then nodded. He looked a little guilty again, but Stiles didn't care for what reason.

"That's good. Yeah, that's good. Just, uh... Just remember to sleep." His dad gestured to the clock, which said it was four in the morning. "And eat." He sat back up straight. "Are you hungry?"

Stiles shrugged, turning back to the computer when he sensed that the conversation was nearly over. "I guess." Truth is, he'd been hungry for so long, he didn't notice it anymore.

"I'm gonna get you something to eat. And I'll bring up that box from Isaac." He listened to his dad get up, hover for a moment, then leave his room.

As soon as he was gone, Stiles let out a sigh and hung his head, pulling at his hair. He closed his eyes, tired and worn. He knew he was pushing the pack away. He's trying to figure out a way to fix it. The biggest problem was that he just couldn't seem to _care_.

_'Thunk...'_

Stiles tilted his head to the ceiling when he heard the thunk. It was so small and quiet, he didn't think much of it, but then he remembered _werewolves._ Specifically _Derek_ , who has a history of camping out on his roof to keep an eye on him when he's either in threat of being targeted or under house-arrest and is getting paid by the Sheriff to act as a kind of guard-dog. Clearly his father doesn't mind thinking of people as animals when it comes to _that._ He wondered if Derek is here under his dad's orders.

He got up and went to the window, pushed it open and poked his head out. But he didn't see anything, and he wasn't about to climb out there. Fuck that. "Derek, I swear to god, if that's you..." Still nothing.

What the fuck ever. If Derek wanted to sit up there in the dark and the cold, so be it. Stiles won't be doing anything other than working, anyway, so he doesn't care.

Still, before going back to his desk, he pointedly locked the window with a loud click.

A moment later, his door opened and his dad came in with a plate of hamburger helper and a cup of water. He also set a box on his bed, then left again after lingering awkwardly.

Stiles nibbled at the food, gulped down the water, then realized just how hungry he was and scarfed the rest.

He finally cast a glance over at the box.

He wheeled his chair over curiously and picked it up. Something in there slid around, and written on the top of the plain cardboard box was, " _I'm sorry I wasn't always there for you but if it matters to you I did always trust you to be there for me._ " Isaac never did use commas. Stiles isn't sure he ever even learned what they were. Countless times he'd have to sit there and slowly try to decipher a long, comma-less text. Sometimes he even forewent punctuation in general. He's not a grammar Nazi, but there's a point where improper grammar is just incoherent. Isaac is at that point.

Stiles caught a fond smile on his lips and didn't dare try to bite it down as he opened the box. The first thing that fell out when he tipped it just the littlest bit was a piece of paper with Isaac's scrawl, saying, _'You deserve it more than me'._

He tipped the box the rest of the way, then his smile fell easily. It was a framed photograph. It was the day they went to the huge fair a few cities away.

It had been dark, and chilly. The bright orange lights on the _huge_ Ferris wheel behind them shone on the dampness on all of the tents and coloring the fog in the air, creating this wonderful glow in the night. He could still smell the overwhelming scent of fried food and sweet sugary greatness coming from the funnel cake stand they'd passed. He could remember the music, too loud but still somehow just loud enough.

Standing in the middle of the slightly tilted picture, Isaac, Stiles and Scott stood. Stiles, was between the two other boys, a steaming cup of hot-cocoa clutched in his hands while Isaac held a stupidly sized lolly pop and Scott held some cotton candy in the arms that weren't around Stiles' shoulders.

Stiles had been under-bundled as always, his only defensive layer against the cold being his favorite red plaid over-shirt, other than the ridiculous brown scarf that Isaac had let him borrow, which Stiles had covering his entire neck and even a little part of his chin (it was _chilly_ ). Isaac, without his scarf, only had his stylish knit sweater, wrapped tight to his body. He had stolen a lost sneaker's shoelace to wrap around his waist to keep his sweater in place, since the sweater's major design flaw was that it had no buttons, no zipper, nothing. The bright red shoelace tied in a bow was Stiles' idea, because it just looked so amazingly, uncharacteristically tacky on _Isaac_ of all people. It had been a whole thing. And Scott... Scott had been wearing his grey hoodie that day. The one that was currently resting peacefully beside Stiles' desk out of the way.

Stiles sighed quietly, a finger running over Scott's goofy too-big grin. He looked at Isaac's tilted smirk, always the same, and his own smile, which he had been trying to hold back for the picture, but hadn't succeeded. He'd tried really hard not to show how happy he really was, because all they'd done was give him shit the entire day, but the camera-woman, Erica, had been doing some stupid hip-wiggle thing that he'd never expected _her_ to do, and he'd cracked, and she'd quickly snapped the picture with a triumphant cheer. Right after that photo, he remembered, he'd handed Scott his hot-cocoa and sprinted after her as she flaunted the photo to the sky. They tore through the crowd until one of the glorified guards bluntly asked them to politely exit the fairgrounds, and then they snuck back in to continue their night of fun.

It had been a great day.

He'd always wondered what happened to that photo. He supposed, since it was Isaac's camera, he would've ended up with it but he never really thought about it.

It was a beautiful photo, he thought. Even though the camera had been crooked when it was taken, and there was a wet spot on the top right of the lens where the orange glow from the Ferris wheel streaked across, and all of the lights in the background kind of blurred into one (except it was just clear enough he could make out the obvious shape of the Ferris wheel), it was still perfect in its own imperfect way. It captured their fun that night. It captured how cold it was. It captured how happy they were.

He turned the frame over and read what was written on the back in Isaac's handwriting: **_My friends Stiles Scott (and Erica) at the Rose City Fair_**

His fingers clutched the frame tight as anxiety crept in, and he wanted to throw it... Instead, he stood up slowly, tears in his eyes, and set it on Scott's jacket trying to regain control of his breathing.

Maybe, after a while, looking and touching his things wouldn't hurt so bad.

Stiles sat back down at his computer and went to continue working, but then he shook his head at himself. He's supposed to be mending his relationships with his friends. And Isaac is reaching out because he's been hurt. Stiles reached for his phone...

And then remembered it was broken somewhere deep in the woods.

It was a simple problem. It wasn't even that big of a deal; he's lost and broken countless phones before. All he had to do was go to the store and buy a new one. He'd begin to settle with burner phones too if it came down to it.

But something about it just broke him. He was already raw to begin with, like a glass vase, cracked from past abuse; even if he'd mended a few of them - but still it only takes the smallest disturbance to shatter it the rest of the way.

He hung his head between his knees with his hands clutched in his hair and he felt anxiety choke him. He shook, anger and fear clouding everything around him. He felt his breath catch, seethed out the air in his lungs, then sucked it back in harshly. The next sound he let out was loud, deep and guttural, painful in the very best way. He gritted his teeth and that guttural sound rattled through, burning his throat in the process.

He just wanted to let Isaac know that he was sorry. That he wasn't mad. That he wanted to see him. That he appreciated him. That he missed him, too. Why did it have to be so hard to do things right?

The next breath he heaved in, he gave in to the pressure building inside of his chest and he yelled. He yelled so hard it shook his entire body. So hard it immediately gave him a headache. But it felt so good to let out. All of that tension inside breaking and loosening. So he did it a second time, his whole body heaving with his effort. And a third time, tilting his head up and digging his fingers into the arm rests of his chair. He tried to make this one last longer, and his yell turned raw and a whine hung on the end. His throat hurt.

Finally, he was done. He was exhausted. With tears in his eyes, yet some twisted feeling of satisfaction in his bones that pulled a sick smile on his lips even as he sobbed afterwards, he crawled into bed. As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt like he weighed a thousand pounds. His bed had never felt so comfortable before.

He was asleep within only seconds, just soon enough to hear his dad come in and feel him settle the blankets over him with a sigh, and fell his way to sleep. His mind, just before unconsciousness, continued spurring on just long enough to come to a decision that would change everything...

_Things are going to change after tonight._

_No more pain. No more disfunction. I'm going to find a way to bring them back and nothing is going to stop me._

_I have to live as if they're still here to give a shit about me._

_This is when the journey begins._


	7. Chapter 7

_"As we walk in a straight line  
Down in the dirt with a landslide approaching  
But nothing could ever stop us  
From stealing our own place in the sun  
We will face the odds against us  
And run into the fear we run from  
It has begun"_

**_-It Has Begun,_ Starset**

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the thick, fat, grey clouds that had encroached over the sky. He'd been watching them for the better part of two hours. First they started just on the edge of the horizon, barely grey and hardly admissible. Slowly they gained mass and color as they hurled their way across the sky. So far, it didn't feel like it was going to rain. It wasn't nearly dark enough - wasn't nearly humid enough. There was a certain smell that one could expect just before a rain storm, or perhaps the feeling of electricity in the air? Regardless, he didn't think it was the clouds' time to let loose upon him... Not yet, at least.

The fluffy masses of water vapor now blocked out the sun in places, which was nearly directly above. Stiles estimated he probably had four or five more hours of sunlight by now, so he figured he'd try to enjoy the warmth and light while he had it. Soon enough the temperature would drop, regardless of it being the beginning of summer. Then darkness would consume, and his chances of being rescued would fall tremendously.

The sun's light lit the cloud up from the inside out, like a fire was alight within. It looked picture-perfect - like something from an outrageously expensive and pretentious art gallery that you had to pay a fee just to enter. It was rare, beautiful, and something to be treasured, for sure. Nevermind the promise of rain that dampened his spirits, pun fully intended.

The rays of light that broke through the cloud shone down like something similar to the Northern Lights, a stark contrast from the shade engulfing the rest of the ocean. One ray of light lit up the water just a few yards away and he could feel the heat radiating from it. His skin still burned in protest to the UV rays, but the chill under his skin cried in yearning for the warmth. He turned to look at it, dipped his foot in the water and began lazily kicking. Slowly but surely, he steered himself towards it, battled only by the waves that pushed him on. Once he was under the ray, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, basking in the warm light.

As far as last-sights go, this wasn't a bad one. It really was beautiful, he thought. In Beacon Hills, as soon as it got cloudy, it got humid, dark, and downright dreary. Dangerous, even. It seemed that every time it got cloudy and dark, something happened. Someone got hurt. Someone got killed. The atmosphere itself became hostile... Who knew it could get cloudy and still feel like a good day?

He thought of the last time he felt like it was a good day. After Scott and Melissa's death, he had thought it was impossible to have another good day. Yet, just three days ago, he had been truly satisfied. Layed out on the roof of that wondrous mansion, watching the shooting stars under a half-full moon with Erica by his side talking companionably about love and life... it had been wonderful.

If only he could go back to that.

The cloud eventually moved across the sky and the light he was basking in slid off into the distance. Stiles stared mournfully after it and began shivering in the shade. He grunted as he pulled himself onto his companion of wood and plaster, his dearest friend, the only thing that occupied this space that wasn't water - the only thing keeping him afloat and alive - and curled up. He watched the shade crawl over the waves. He watched the light appear and disappear randomly, slowly. The waves sparkled, then fell flat once the light passed.

The bright, flickering light reminded him of the flames that had engulfed the plane, bright and violent, whipping in the wind. It reminded him of the soft blue light reflecting off of the night waves as the plane crashed down.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the terrifying moments upon impact where he thought he was going to be impaled by a piece of the plane - possibly the piece he now rests on.

Cold, alone, hungry and in pain, he slept.

-

_I have to live as if they're still here to give a shit about me._

_This is when the journey begins._

**It has begun.**

__

Stiles' fingers moved over his keyboard seamlessly, quickly, without error. He's been awake since the sun started coming up, and had begun working on his research again.

He feels great. Not necessarily mentally healthy, of course, because he's not gotten distracted even once; he knows that this will become an obsession - he's seen it far too often, even experienced it once or twice before, so he knows this could consume him. But, it's the price to pay for getting Scott and Melissa back, and he's willing to pay it. Maybe, in time, he'll come to his senses and be able to take control of himself again, but right now he doesn't care that this task is taking over everything. He wants it to. He needs this.

And so he continued. He'd not gotten much further as far as planning went, but he'd narrowed down his questions. Specifically, he knew that he needed to talk to Deaton as soon as possible. He'd surmised that relying on the rantings of the internet wouldn't help as much as he'd like. Instead, he'd do better to talk to someone who has actually dealt with resurrection. He planned on calling Derek, Peter, Lydia and Deaton here to talk with them in just a few minutes. After all, each of them has had a hand in bringing _someone_ back to life at some point, and it's about time he got some real answers.

He reached for his phone, then remembered. It was smashed to pieces somewhere in the woods. Damn it.

Stiles pursed his lips, then looked over at the window with crossed arms and a reluctant frown. He'd heard another thump in his roof a few hours ago. He doesn't know how long Derek's been up there, but he knows for a fact that he's still there.

With no other options (since his dad came in earlier that morning to tell him he had to go meet with a few of his deputies for a reason Stiles didn't give enough of a shit about to ask and so he wasn't here to borrow his phone from), he got up and walked to the window. He purposefully unlocked it more noisily than need be and made a show of pushing it all the way up. He waited a moment, then stuck his head out and said, "Hey, guard dog. I need to borrow your phone."

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of subtle creaking. Sourwolf slid off the roof and landed in a crouch in front of his window. He was dressed in a tight dark-grey t-shirt under a thick black over-shirt today. He actually looked a little cold, and Stiles wondered how long he'd been out there.

Their eyes met, and Stiles thinks they both just stayed there, staring, for what felt like an incredibly inappropriate amount of time. He looked into Derek's eyes, terribly distracted, and saw the pale green color of summer water. He could see swirls of blues and browns, like ripples in an otherwise calm river. A river which stood still and dangerous, even under scrutiny, but if granted a hint of patience and care, flowed delicately, like raindrops over the leaf of a flower, only to give way to deep waters that could sweep away even the largest of creatures if threatened. A river which could trust or destroy within the same breadth of its reach with only a touch.

Outside of those captivating river-eyes, he saw the familiar expression of a man once so terrifying to him. A man who once threatened his life. A man he once didn't trust any farther than he could throw him - which is to say, not at all. Those eyes, used by his dark expression, showed worry underneath layers and layers of wariness...

He hadn't seen that look since the Nogitsune.

Stiles closed his eyes and ducked his head, breaking the spell it seemed they had both been caught in and returning time into motion.

"You should probably come in before someone sees a dark figure crouched on the Sheriff's roof," Stiles mumbled as he stepped away from the window to make room. A cold draft blew in through the open window and Stiles took in a sharp breath, suddenly chilled to the bone. He would never understand why Derek chose to camp out on his roof in what he thought was secrecy instead of just coming in and providing him with company - right, because they're not supposed to be friends.

Whatever.

Derek hummed in agreement and slid in. "People might talk," he said under his breath, the minuscule sound of humor lacing his voice even though his face stayed void of any kind of amusement.

"Yeah," Stiles said, watching as Derek turned to close the window. He noticed his hesitation before he locked it with a flick of his finger. The sharp sound of metal on metal rung through the room and Stiles physically felt it. "People do that."

Derek's river-eyes rounded the room before they landed back on Stiles' own, and it suddenly felt like an accusation. "There's been a lot of it."

Stiles' face took on a frown. "A lot of what?"

Derek blinked, squinted, then said impatiently, "Talk."

"Oh." God, this is getting awkward.

The desk chair beckoned him, so he crossed the room and took a seat. Derek followed behind and wandered to his bed, lowering onto the edge. "You really shouldn't try to be subtle," Stiles said. "It's not your strong-suit."

Derek lowered his head and a sound left him. "You sound exactly like Peter." He looked back up at Stiles with a sigh. His eyes, then, became purely _beseeching._ "Stiles-"

"I need your phone," he blurted, cutting Derek off before he could say something that could piss him off to no end. Derek opened his mouth, that expression not changing, so he added, "Either give me your phone or get the fuck out."

His heart took a second to warn him of his actions, clenching hard. Derek froze, those expressive eyebrows of his lowering just a fraction, but damn those things, he looked like someone just kicked his puppy. Again. He always looks like someone kicked his puppy.

Still, he finally reached into his pocket and pulled out his crappy little flip phone and handed it over without a word. Though, as Stiles winced and looked away, his expression said it all... _'Who are you?'_ his eyebrows asked. _'Why can't I figure you out anymore?'_ said his frowning lips. _'Go back to your normal self, please.'_ begged his beautiful river-eyes.

 _'I don't like to see you this way,'_ his entire tense, hunched body cried.

It was painful to see, so he focused on something he could control. Ignoring the werewolf in the room, Stiles quickly sent a text to Deaton, Lydia and Peter, saying, _NEED YOU AT SHERIFFS HOUSE NOW_

Derek always texted in caps. If he ever wanted to convey something that a normal person might put in caps, he just adds an exclamation mark - two if it's _really_ important. He wondered if the cavewolf even knew what capslock was.

While he had the phone in his hand, he went ahead and changed his settings around. Finally, Derek could text like a normal person who only capitalizes entire words for dramatic effect.

He tried to feel the humor, but still felt nothing. It was weird. He was able to feel humor with Peter. Why can't he feel it now? If everything was normal, he would've cheered evilly at the chance to change Derek's phone settings.

"Here," he mumbled, tossing the phone back to Derek. Sourwolf stared at him, then distrustfully read the messages he sent.

"Why do you need-..." Derek shut himself up and, half a second later, Stiles caught his eyes dance around at all of the useless research he'd been trying to do.

"Maybe you're smarter than Peter says you are," Stiles said harshly, but it didn't seem to bother Derek in the slightest. He was probably long since used to being brutally teased. Even so far as blatantly insulted. Still, Stiles knew that it wasn't like himself to be like that.

Why was he being like that?

"Slow," Derek said.

"Huh?"

Derek looked back up at him, eyes tight. "Peter says I'm _slow_."

Then, Derek stood up and walked right out his bedroom door without so much as another glance. What the hell was that about? Stiles swears talking with Derek is like encountering a hernia in human form.

Ten minutes of quiet typing later, Stiles was disturbed from his distressful peace by a knock on his door. He froze and felt all of his muscles tense for a reason unknown. Like the next person to come into his room was going to rip him a new one... Of course, maybe he deserved it.

He looked over his shoulder and grunted, "What," at the door.

A moment of hesitation, then he watched the doorknob turn.

While the knob turned, his eyes caught on the spot where the shine on the metal was disrupted by the dried smear of blood he'd never cleaned off. His stomach churned unpleasantly as the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

It was Scott's blood. The night he left the jacket. It had been a stupid accident - they had even laughed about it. Scott had been so distracted complaining about school that after he took off his jacket, he had slapped his hand down on the dagger Stiles had left sitting out on his desk. The wound had healed quickly, and both boys had made jokes about a harmless knife being the death of him... But Scott had still wanted to go to the bathroom to clean off the blood from his hand. He'd brought back a paper towel and Stiles had wiped the blood from the dagger and the desk, but he'd forgotten all about the doorknob.

Stiles couldn't get the image of his dad soaked in Scott and Melissa's blood out of his head. He felt dizzy. He saw red everywhere, and he wanted to vomit, hated this contaminated feeling from inside.

"It's Erica," said her soft voice while Stiles jumped out of his chair, grabbing a dirty sock. She pushed the door open, then fell back on her heels when she saw that he was already rushing to the door. "Oh, sorry, I-... Um..."

"What do you want," Stiles said tersely, spitting on his sock and then furiously wiping at the blood on the knob. Erica stared at him, watching him scrub at the dried blood with shaking hands, and it bothered him. He felt like he was being dissected, picked apart until his barest of intentions were laid bare under a sharp scalpel.

He hated it.

Once Scott's blood was gone and Erica still hadn't said or done a thing, he stopped and looked at her, glaring. " _What do you want_."

She blinked at him, and he felt his veins turn hot. "Geez, Stiles, I just wanted to check on you." She threw her hands in the air in a mock placating gesture with a sour smile on her lips. "Excuse me for caring. _Damn_." She shook her head with a scoff while Stiles glared harder and then headed back for the stairs. "Peter and Lydia are here. Maybe you'll care about _them_."

Stiles scoffed on his own and shut his door. Whatever. Erica could give him every snarky remark she wanted. He didn't have time for her bullshit. Now wasn't the time for sentimentality or effort spent in acting _nice_. He was on a mission, Scott and Melissa were the priority, and time was of the essence.

Everyone else would just have to deal with that.

Stiles threw his sock in the trash, then shoved a few pieces of paper over top when he could still see the red stain staring up at him from the bin. He packed it down tight, then stood back. Finally, he was satisfied, and that shaky, disgusting feeling inside went away. He took a sigh, then glanced through his notes once more before he left his room and made his way downstairs.

Indeed, Peter and Lydia were here.

Including Erica, Derek, the Sheriff, and even fucking Jackson.

"Stiles," his dad said, catching him in his path straight for Jackson. He wanted him _out_. He couldn't deal with him. "Come here." He sighed heavily, but followed his dad to the kitchen with a tight frown. The Sheriff, dressed in a clean Sheriff's uniform, if a little disheveled, handed him a plate with a sandwich and grapes on it. Stiles reached out for it blindly and slowly his hands took it. Meanwhile, his eyes were stuck on his dad's uniform, remembering the blood. For a moment, it felt like he could see it all again. Bad memories. Terrible memories.

"Why are you wearing that," he asked, breathy. He felt tears try to sting his eyes, but he forced himself to wrench his mind away from that path. Scott and Melissa wouldn't want him to keep torturing himself like this.

"I had to go in to work today," his dad said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I had to..."

"File a report," Stiles finished blandly.

"Give my statement," his dad corrected, before adding, "And I wanted to work on catching whoever did this."

Stiles blinked, and felt his heart start to race immediately. Anxiety rose up fast. "You don't know who-... who k-... who did this?" He still hasn't asked. He still doesn't know what happened. Why hasn't he asked? "I want to know. What did you find out? What happened?"

His dad opened his mouth, looking pained, and then looked over with relief on his face when Lydia walked in. "Stiles, you dragged us here for a reason," she said impatiently. Though her aggravated front didn't quite reach her eyes. She looked... tired.

"Right. Um..." Stiles ran his hand through his hair. "In a minute." He needed answers.

"I think," his dad said, though, voice too forced. "I think you owe your friends your time. Since, you know, you did call them here."

Stiles gritted his teeth, his fists clenched hard, but nodded. He'll get an answer some other time.

"Come on," Lydia said, and held out a hand. She wore a soft, trust-worthy smile. Stiles sighed, but let her take his hand and wrap both of her hands around it soothingly.

"Where's Deaton," Stiles asked her. Behind him, his dad left he and Lydia alone.

"He's running late. He said he was out of town when he got the text from Derek- well, _you_." She frowned at Stiles' disappointed look. "So what did you need?"

Stiles took a breath and steadied himself. "I'm going to bring them back to life," Stiles said surely. He lifted his chin when Lydia looked a little surprised. "I'm going to bring them back, but I need your help."

Stiles rubbed his head and watched Lydia, Derek and his dad talk about "ethics" with exhausted disinterest - he really didn't expect "progress" to be so anticlimactic. Each time he blinked, it got harder and harder to drag his eyelids back open. He felt his body sink into the chair like the fluffy thing was becoming immaterial right beneath him, and could imagine just shutting his eyes and falling into the deep sleep he certainly needed. But each time he felt himself slipping, he jerked with a spike of fear, like any time he fell asleep he'd miss something vital.

It was annoying as hell.

After the third time his dad used the line, "If we do this, what's to stop any of us from doing it again?" Stiles slapped his hand down on the seat rest in frustration.

"We're doing this," he said loud enough that everyone in the living room could hear him. Peter, who was sat in the chair at the end of the coffee table reading a book, was the only one who didn't look at him.

"Ethics is a blurred line. It's a... a philosophical subject." He looked up and met everyone's eyes. "Realistically, cloning living organisms could become an absolute disaster, but because we had the technology, it was done anyway. It started off with a sheep, and now there's been cloned cats, dogs, cattle, deer, coyotes... Cloning could save hundreds of endangered species... but they deemed that effort ' _unethical_ '." He looked right into his dad's eyes. "Imagine, in maybe just a hundred years, you can clone your pet fucking cat, but because someone deemed saving endangered species 'unethical', no one knows what a wolf even was anymore." A long pause. "I _hate_ ethics," Stiles grumbled, glaring down at his fingers.

The room was quiet for a long time after that. There was a tense sort of feeling in the air. Jackson, sat in a chair at the dining table, fiddled with his shoelace with a grumpy look on his face. Erica stared with shy but interested eyes from her spot on the couch. Still no Deaton.

"Stiles," his dad said, walking up to him with an empathetic look on his face. "If we bring them back - if you figure out how to do it..."

"I _know_ what you're saying, dad," Stiles said.

" _No_ , kid, you _don't._ " His dad was aggravated. "They're already dead. Everyone who worked on them at the hospital knows they're dead. Their records say they're dead. What do you think will happen if they just _come back?_ " Stiles gritted his teeth and looked away. "On top of that, if we break the rules of _nature itself_ and bring someone back from the dead just because we _love_ them..." His voice fell quiet, breathy, _frightful._ "Where does that stop?" Stiles looked back up at him with defiance in his eyes. "If you figure out how to bring them back... What happens when _I_ die?" Stiles could feel his heart start to race again. "What happens when someone else you love dies? You can't bring back everyone, Stiles."

"No," Stiles agreed. Then he leaned forward, hands clasped together hard. And he glared up into his dad's eyes. "But I can bring _them_ back."

His dad sighed heavily and turned around, a hand in his hair. He shook his head. "This isn't what I wanted to happen."

"Is this not what you expected, dad, when you basically _guilted me_ into making this my problem?!" The Sheriff spun around to stare at Stiles in warning. He dug his fingers into his palms. "Well guess what? I _believe_. I fucking _believe_ and _nothing is going to stop me_ , so now, you have to _deal_ with that."

"Sheriff," Derek said, respectfully but sternly. Both of the Stilinski men looked over at him. "With all due respect... We live by different rules from the rest of society. It is our... responsibility to keep this town safe. And Scott is important as a True Alpha-"

"Oh, cut the shit, Hale!" his dad erupted. "Your werewolf-y true-alpha bullshit isn't _relevant!_ This isn't about magic and monsters! This is about a boy," his dad cut a glance at Stiles and pointed an angry finger at him, "feeling the pain of loss and lashing out, trying to play _god_. This is about _rules_ , and this is about _following those rules_."

"Peter, Kate, Gerard," Lydia said, voice tense like there was a cork in her throat trying to keep all of her words of truth bottled up, but it was slipping. "They all got to come back. Why can't we make an exception for our _friends?_ "

"Because it is not _up to us!_ "

"You _told me to bring them back!_ " Stiles cried out loudly, shakily pushing himself upright. " _You told me to!_ "

"It was supposed to give you _hope!_ You weren't supposed to _actually do it!_ "

"I can't even tell you how fucking manipulative that is of you," Stiles growled. His dad looked hopeless.

"We can't make exceptions," his dad continued, voice more level now. "We can't pick and choose-"

"' _With all due respect'_ ," Peter piped up loudly, silencing everyone with his superior, mocking tone. He still stared down at the book in his lap. "There is a famous quote, Sheriff..." Slowly, Peter read, "'All it takes for the triumph of evil, is that good men do nothing'." He paused for effect, ever the wordsmith. "My return to the living? Kate's? Gerard's? It was all the doing of 'evil', and the _good_ had to battle and suffer the repercussions." He finally looked up, and tilted his head over at the Sheriff. "In front of you is the chance to tip those scales back to an equilibrium. The chance to make things right, which... that's your life's goal, is it not? Make things right?" His tone became dramatically wistful, eyebrows emoting desperation. "Or... Will these good men do nothing?"

Another stretching silence, and Stiles felt heat in his cheeks. They were winning. Ethics had no place here. Not anymore. Peter was right. They'd taken too many hits in the name of being good. Now it was time to make things right.

"All in favor," Stiles said, glancing at the people in the room with fearful anticipation, needing to push this to its breaking point, "of bringing Scott and Melissa back..."

For a long moment, no one said anything. Everyone just shared glances. He became horrified. Maybe he hadn't won after all. He couldn't understand it. Everyone in this room loved Scott and Melissa, maybe except for Peter, but still... At least, Stiles thought they did.

But, then, Peter flaunted his fingers in the air for a moment and said, "If it'll be the one good thing I do in this life..." Stiles eyed him, couldn't help suspiciously wondering why Peter Hale of all people had Stiles' back on this. Peter didn't care about anything that didn't benefit him... Did this benefit him in some way?

Stiles ignored his distrustful thoughts of Peter when Lydia swallowed and pushed out her chin. "He was my friend." She glanced at Stiles. "I say we do it."

Then so did Erica, who sniffled as tears began to flow and said, "I second that."

"Melissa and Scott deserve it," Jackson said - and Stiles hadn't expected him to have an opinion, either, but still... Damn, maybe he'd underestimated the hearts in this room.

All eyes were on the last two men. Derek stared into the Sheriff's eyes, shoulders hunched just the tiniest bit in respect, but eyes soft and pleading. Pleading for forgiveness. "I'm sorry, Sheriff... But I'm sick of losing the only people I have left."

Stiles let his eyes close, and felt everything calm once again. A chill ran down his body as it clicked. He had won. Everyone supported him. They were going to bring them back. It was done and the decision was made. This belief seemed much closer to reality, now, and he was more relieved than he could've imagined.

They had his back.

The Sheriff nodded as hands fell, and he looked at Stiles. The lines on his forehead and cheeks were pronounced. The crinkles at the edges of his eyes were deeper than ever. But, he looked... proud. "For the record," he said softly, "I'm glad this is the course you're taking. But it's my job to fight the other point." He gave Stiles a fatherly smile. "Just please, for the love of god, be careful."

Stiles nodded. "I will."

"Deaton, come in," the Sheriff said politely from the door, gesturing with his chin to the couch, then resting his hands on his uniform belt.

Deaton wandered in, a pleasant look on his face. Always a pleasant look. Deep down, Stiles couldn't help but notice it always put him off. Someone who looks so pleasant all the time can only be hiding something dark... but he already knew Deaton had skeletons he kept hidden. No one in this world was what they seemed anymore. "Stiles," he said first, walking towards Derek and Lydia. "It's good to see you."

Stiles forced a smile. "Yeah, ditto."

"What was the urgency?" Deaton asked Derek, all business.

"It was me," Stiles said, and got his attention. "I want to pick your brain."

Deaton looked pleased again, but a different kind of pleased. Like he was sitting down at a chess board, excited to play a tricky game with a worthy opponent. He wandered over, sat down on the couch with his hands crossed and smiled, nodding his consent. Not for the first time, Stiles felt like Deaton was... more than human. It was as if Stiles could, deep down, sense that he was more powerful than he should be. Like the Hales, or any other well-grounded werewolf - he felt _more_ than simply intimidated in their company. It was the hairs that stood on end at the base of his skull. It was the tickle of his spine urging him to watch his back. It was the instant awareness his consciousness kicked into high gear, wary of every move made. He's noticed he felt this way towards Deaton, but always figured it was simply because he was a druid. He knew Deaton was a druid. He'd known the vet had his fingers stained with the scorches of magic for a long time. He always figured it was normal. Unquestionable.

But now he's questioning it.

Surely, Deaton has access to some pretty powerful magic if he's able to set off Stiles' senses like he does, even if Stiles himself doesn't necessarily understand it.

Stiles steeled himself, and leaned forward. "What do you know about resurrection?"

"I know it's dangerous," Deaton said immediately, easily. Like he'd seen the questions coming long before Stiles even thought to ask them. "I know it's possible, but extremely inaccessible and impractical."

"Meaning?" Stiles pried.

"Meaning, the last known magic-user that managed to bring someone back to life used their own... call it a 'lifeforce' to keep them alive, and she perished in days, and her risen friend died as soon as she did." Deaton leaned forward to match him. "I mean that it takes a certain _breed_ of magic that just isn't accessible."

Stiles didn't buy it. "A breed of magic that isn't accessible? What, like different types of magic exist?"

"Yes, Stiles. You know this. For example, your Spark and the magic from the Nogitsune were two entire different kinds of magic." Stiles flinched at the mention of the void spirit, but he'd been getting over that particular trauma for a while now.

"So what about Peter?" Stiles tossed out.

"Peter was influenced by the power of the most powerful moon of the year, freshly dead, with the power of a newly-born Alpha and a banshee at his disposal, not to mention a certain... meddling of the Nemeton." Deaton glanced at Peter. "In short, he had died at the best possible time." Peter didn't react. Still reading that book like he couldn't hear a thing.

"And there's no... spell we can do?" Stiles pushed. "No ancient artifact we can use?"

Deaton pressed his lips and brows together and sat back. "I'm afraid not."

"Not even if we have external influence of the moon or the Nemeton or-"

"The only spells I know of," Deaton interrupted, "have to be done at very specific times of the year, with a very specific type of magic, at very specific places, with very specific ingredients, before the deceased's energy dissipates forever, which can be quick if they're not already magically inclined. There's a reason people aren't being revived all over the place - it's an extremely difficult thing to pull off."

Stiles took a pause. Made himself _see_. Specifically, made himself see how aggressively defensive Deaton suddenly got... Like he was trying to keep Stiles from venturing down a path that he didn't want him to go down.

Deaton had already said that someone had used their own 'lifeforce' to bring someone back. No external power, nothing - their _own 'lifeforce'_. What is that, just another word for magic? Someone had done that. Someone _can_ do that... "And you don't have any connections to anyone with access to the necessary magic? Who can revive people?"

Deaton's face twitched, and he shook his head. "No, Stiles."

Stiles barely paid it any thought. He was ready to move on to the next question, trying to find another angle to pry at. But, at that moment, he saw Peter's chest rise slightly before his eyes cut over to the vet subtly. And something in those icey-blue eyes screamed distrust.

Deaton saw this, apparently, and the two men met eyes. Peter slowly rose his head, giving Deaton his full attention, and his Arctic blue eyes showed a hint of danger rising beneath.

The vet almost looked... scared.

"I'm terribly sorry, Stiles," he said suddenly as he stood up, brushing his shirt to smooth it back down. "I wish I could help."

Deaton turned to leave, but Derek had somehow just crept his happy ass right between the couch and the chair, cutting off his exit. Derek was wearing a tight scowl, but underneath was no anger, unlike Peter, who's eyes held something wild within. Derek looked only confused beneath that scowl. Like he didn't quite understand the context, but knew the underlying threat regardless. And Stiles understood what was happening once Peter stood up and blocked Deaton's retreat and Derek looked to him like he was waiting for him to call the shots. Derek was picking up on Peter's reaction to what the vet said.

What _had_ Deaton said that set Peter off? He'd said... He'd told Stiles he didn't have any connections...

Was Peter able to pick up on a lie?

Deaton looked at Derek, turned and then jerked to a stop when he noticed Peter stood behind him. He then said cooly, "I do have someplace to be."

"Do you?" Peter said. His voice was as cold, slippery smooth as ice, sharp as a dagger. Derek began stepping backwards, and Peter prowled towards Deaton, forcing him into a path of his own choosing.

The wolves in the room got to their feet, eyes flashing here and there in response to the tension in the air. Stiles tried to rise to his feet as well, but was too weak.

"Tell me, Doctor," Peter said dangerously, the same tone Stiles remembered from when they first met. "Where could you possibly be going?"

Deaton didn't say anything.

Then, all of a sudden, Peter grabbed him by the throat and threw him down into one of the crappy wooden chairs that the Sheriff had got at a yard sale. Peter held him there with claws pressed to his skin of his neck. The chair creaked loudly, tipped onto two legs before slamming back to the ground once Deaton was settled. It was... honestly scary. Stiles didn't know how to feel. He's watched Peter rip people apart with only a grimace, but he doesn't know how to react to see Peter share violence with someone he calls an ally.

"Peter!" the Sheriff shouted in alarm, but Derek was with him, keeping him from launching himself at the two. Keeping him out of the path of possible danger. "What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

"You know, Deaton, I have noticed you tell more lies than truths," Peter said, ignoring the Sheriff. "It may be hard to pick up on your heartbeat, since you have the half-truths and misdirection down to an art-form, but when you're forced to answer something that gives you no option to evade and con, I can't help but notice the spike of pain each time." Peter snatched Deaton's hand and tilted it. Stiles leaned forward, straining his eyes and catching sight of deep, angry nail-marks in the skin of his inner wrist. "Pain can hide a lie very well," Peter continued, growling down at Deaton. "Not well enough when I'm in the room. Who is your contact."

"I don't have a contact-"

Peter laughed, and Stiles saw his hand tighten on his throat. "Oh, Doctor, you're not even trying anymore!"

"Peter," Derek said under his breath, voice tight. Peter's hold loosened just a little.

"Wait, so you know someone?" Stiles asked, slowly catching on, and Deaton looked over at him with passive eyes.

" _Oh,_ he knows someone," Peter confirmed with the hard tone of anger. He jerked Deaton by the neck as he let go and stood up, looming over him. Deaton breathed through a ragged throat, grimacing as he rubbed his neck.

"You don't understand," the vet said mournfully, and Stiles felt his world turn vicious. He could've sworn, for a moment, he actually saw red.

"You _know someone who can bring people back to life_ , and you tried to _lie to me about it?!_ " Stiles found strength and jumped up, rushed over and grabbed Deaton's shirt, fist trembling within the fabric as he shouted, " _You were Scott's mentor! You've known him for years! Scott thought of you like a FATHER!_ " He felt everything shaking apart at its foundations. The people he thought he was closest to are seemingly just as fake as the version of him the Nogitsune created. They were imposters. Deaton was a lie. A conman that won the heart of his best friend, only to insult it by hiding the one thing he ever needed from him. " _And now he's dead, and you won't even open your mouth to lead us to someone who can actually bring him and Melissa back?!_ "

"Stiles, you _couldn't_ understand- _Mmf!_ " Deaton yelped loudly when Stiles slammed a fist into his mouth. Everyone jerked, gasped. Couldn't believe the violence Stiles showed.

" _WHO?! WHO IS IT?! TELL ME!!_ " The force of his rage was stronger than he'd ever experienced before. He could feel his anger like an aura, surrounding the air around him in this dense, dangerous wall of threat. He felt like it was charged, hot. Suffocating and only fueling a path of destruction.

Peter stared at him from beside him. His cold blue eyes showed awe and adoration but also the tightness of fear. But Stiles didn't see this. Couldn't. All he could see was Deaton.

Deaton, the asshole he'll never trust again, just stared at him and said nothing with blood running over his lip. Rearing his fist back, Stiles geared up to hit him again, but Peter grabbed him by the arms and held him tight, took his pain as he struggled. His pain? No, he took his anger. He took his rage.

His rage was his pain.

This time, he didn't take enough to knock him out, but with a building growl in his chest, he took away every ounce of raw fight Stiles wanted to unleash upon this traitor.

"Stop!" Stiles cried, feeling his fight leaving him.

"I'm not going to let you become this," Peter said into his ear under the growl, and stopped only once Stiles had sagged against him. Peter let go, and Stiles stumbled back, leaning against the armrest of the couch and catching his breath. He looked at Deaton, seeing his defensive eyes on Peter. He looked at his dad, seeing the fear... the disgust. Tears welled up and began to spill over Stiles' cheek once he realized what he'd done.

 _I'm sorry, dad_.

"Olivia Moon." All eyes went to Deaton. He paused long enough to rub at his busted lip. "She can help bring them back."

It was silent for a long moment. All eyes, all _suspicion,_ was on Deaton. The liar. The deceiver.

Peter leaned down, eyes burning bright blue - so bright they seemed only surreal - and he loomed over Deaton once again. "Who is she."

"She's a witch," Deaton said, swallowing like it pained him. "We haven't talked in quite a while, but she still lives in Oregon... I can bring you to her."

"Why did you try to keep her secret from us," Lydia asked from behind, over by Derek and the Sheriff. She sounded rattled. Scared. Like she, too, couldn't believe how easily she could've been fooled.

"Because," Deaton said, trying to look over his shoulder but unable to with Peter in his space. "I didn't want you in the crossfire... Her coven will kill me."

A brief silence, then, ringing through the room was Peter's voice, deep and dangerous, "You're lucky if I don't beat them to it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my favorite chapter so far!!
> 
>   
> (Btw, in case you didn't catch it, in the beginning of this chapter there's a hint in Stiles' ocean scene that tells us that he ended up in the ocean due to a plane crash: For those who were confused <3)
> 
> I'm really sorry it's been so long! Damn writers block and stuff. Anyway, I did manage to throw these three chapters together (I posted 5, 6 and 7 at the same time). I'm going to start working on this fic some more! Please forgive the delay and don't give up on me <3


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